Author's Note: Work got insane for a couple of weeks, but I refuse to abandon my novel. If you're still reading - love and apologies from Ballooney.

April 2006

The first thing Isabella did after Eric Yorkie kissed her was pop a breath mint in her mouth. The mint wasn't enough to dull the taste of onion and a hard-boiled egg. It lingered in her mouth. As she dwelled on the entire ordeal, dread built in the pit of her stomach. Whimpering, she considered her more immediate situation. Bella was in an old, stuffy courtyard. There was a gross mess of dismembered egg salad sandwich on a rotting picnic table; Eric's backpack was abandoned. The pathway that led out of the square courtyard– an alleyway – was flat ground, but on an incline. It led into a concrete crosswalk that would lead to the school's main building. She was certain she could manage it, but she worried about lifting Eric's backpack from the ground – and then the strain of wheeling uphill with it.

There was only one thing for her to do.

Edward answered on the third ring. In her mind's eye, she imagined Edward pressing his thumb to his left ear, walking away from the cafeteria's usual cacophony.

"Hello?"

"Take me home," she wailed into her phone.

"Where are you?" he asked urgently.

Bella sniffed. "I'm in this little courtyard thing behind the library."

"What? Where the fuck is that?"

"There's a little walkway thing to the left of the library building."

Edward muttered something unintelligible to her.

"I'll be there in like five minutes," he said. "Give me like five minutes."

"Thank you," Bella sniffled.

He hung up.

The conversation went exactly as Bella knew it would.

Wincing, she fished out extra napkins from her lunchbox. She unfolded the napkin with trembling fingers, then flung it across the glob of soggy white bread, mayonnaise, and hardboiled egg bits. She repeated the process until the napkins' integrity gave way, then gathered the mess into a spherical glob. She planned to stuff the chunk into Eric's lunchbox, and then dump it into a trash can at the first opportunity. Her fingers had grown sticky with mayo, and her handiwork left behind a trail of yellow-colored mayonnaise.

Eric's lunchbox was on the floor, underneath the table, where she had no way of reaching it. Frustration welled inside her, and she gagged.

"What the fuck?"

Bella didn't need to turn in her chair to see Edward's anger swell.

"Don't ask," Bella begged. "Please, please don't ask."

"What the fuck did Yorkie do? Where the fuck is he?"

"Just –" Bella's words were caught in a sob. "Can you help me – get all of this out of here? I can't reach the lunchbox under the table."

Edward groaned, grumbled, tugged at his hair, and looked vaguely like a muscled-and-grown Rumpelstiltskin. He muttered unintelligible curse words under his breath but eventually got on his haunches. He stuck one long arm under the table bench and pried at the lunchbox with his fingers. Though its outside was the cleanest of Eric's possessions, Edward held it like he might have held soiled underwear.

"That's disgusting, Bee," he spat out, looking at the sandwich glob. "Did he fucking puke or something?"

"No," Bella said testily, snatching it from him with her sticky fingers. She unzippered it nimbly and lined it against the tabletop. She used a napkin to shove the glob into Eric's grimy lunchbox and then zippered it up again. The glob left a white-colored, pungently scented splotch.

"Why the fuck are you cleaning up after his nasty ass?" Edward demanded, clearly furious. "He should be cleaning his mess up."

"Just – I don't know where he is, or if he'll come back, or – " Bella was growing so agitated listing these possibilities that tears welled in her eyes again. The usual staccato of her trembling was aggravated. Gingerly, Bella put the lunchbox in her lap, biting back the impulse to groan.

"Where did he go?"

"I don't know," Bella said. "Can you help me pick up his backpack?"

Edward groaned a long-winded groan. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mumbled, as he lifted the massive backpack from the ground. "What the fuck does he have in here?"

"I don't know," Bella repeated irritably.

Edward turned to look at her, finally taking in her face. As he took in the tear tracks on her cheeks, his entire expression darkened.

"Did Yorkie make you cry?" He made the word cry sound like a grievous injury, and Bella loved him.

Hesitantly, Bella shook her head. "It wasn't… intentional," she said, then started to sniffle and tremble. Her lisping had become pronounced. In her wheelchair, her body shook.

Edward let out a long-winded, roar-like groan. "It's like his pussy ass is begging to be beaten up," he muttered.

"Don't!" Bella cautioned. In that instant, for the very first time, she was worried overwhelmingly for Edward. Her numbness towards Eric scared her.

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath, Edward squared his shoulders. "Okay, or whatever. How do we get out of here? Can I push your chair?"

Edward never manhandled her wheelchair or her broken body, especially not without consent, and Bella loved him.

"Yeah," she mumbled meekly. "I'm going to need help."

Once they were on the main crosswalks, she told him she was exhausted in a tinny, hoarse voice. "I'm not in the mood to go to class," she admitted defeatedly.

"You wanna skip?" he asked gently. Bella had a standing, unspoken blank cheque: she could take days and class periods off, at will.

Peeking at him through dark eyelashes, she nodded. "I'm tired," she mumbled. It wasn't unusual for her to succumb to fatigue: Edward knew that some days – the bad days, he called him – she could sleep for the entire afternoon, and then through the night.

He didn't pry any further as he drove her home – skipping himself -and Bella loved him.

Bella didn't have to wait long to gauge the long-term damage to her relationship with Eric Yorkie. The following day, as was routine, Edward escorted her to her locker. Bella kept her wheelchair turned towards the hallway, expecting Eric to walk past at any minute. Edward's attention was quickly diverted. He was intercepted by two of his football teammates, who were asking him about his ability to do 10 whole pull-ups. Edward feigned casual disinterest, but Bella could feel the arrogance pulsating from his every pore. Fondly, she rolled her eyes.

As he explained "it took discipline," Edward leaned against the closed locker door, playing with Bella's thick, dark mane of hair. She wore it loose but tucked into a diadem because Esme could not stand the notion of unkempt hair.

Bella jumped, startled, at the sight of Eric, as though she hadn't been expecting him. Face contorting into a hateful glare at the sight of Bella, he moved with the energy of rain-laden thunderclouds.

Bella timed her opening salvo with precision.

"Hey," she squeaked loudly.

Eric stopped in his tracks. The sound of his soles rubbing against the floor matched Bella's tone. He lowered his gaze, glowering virulently at Isabella, then scoffed.

Edward dropped the strand of silky hair. In two strides, he walked up to the greasy-haired boy, towering over him. His long, pianist fingers gripped Eric by the collar. "You answer her if she says hi to you." Edward snarled darkly, punctuating his statement with a spit.

"Edward! No." Bella wheedled. "Edward!"

Eric mustered the wherewithal to glower at Bella afresh. "I don't need help from a cripp-"

The entire insult never left his mouth. Edward punched him flatly in the mouth, knocking him over so that his back arched. Under the force of the blow, Eric stumbled backward, and slammed his head hard on the lockers, almost falling. Bella yelped an ear-shattering screech, and Eric's eyes refocused on her. Edward's football friends – their names were muddled in Bella's memory – both jeered and yelped, making sounds that reminded Bella of gorillas. Bella wheeled forward to cling to Edward's t-shirt – grabbing a fistful of fabric. Edward planted his feet squarely between her and Eric.

Bella couldn't see, but she could hear Eric's hot, heaving breaths. She heard him spit, and saw the repugnant white flash hit the ground. Sputtering curses at Edward – and a handful of deeply insulting ones at Isabella - Eric ran away cradling his swollen, bloodied mouth.

"Bro, you OK?"

"Dude," the other boy said stupidly.

Isabella burst into tears, and Edward took deep, shuddering breaths.

Edward barely spared them a glance. "I'll be fine. I need to talk to Bella alone," he said commandingly. One of the boys clapped him on the shoulder, and the two scurried off.

She tugged at his sleeve, wordlessly requesting his hand. After a huff, Edward finally offered it for inspection.

"Your hand," Bella murmured dejectedly. "You shouldn't have punched him."

Edward's lips were a taut, hard line. "I punched him with my left hand. I wasn't gonna waste my right hand on Yorkie's ass."

Bella glared. "Edward, we should have this checked," she insisted.

"I can't afford another disciplinary incident," Edward said testily.

"I'll talk to Mrs. Ortiz," Bella insisted, forcefully if in a whiny voice. "She'll give you a pass. Come on."

Bella didn't wait for his reply before skillfully spinning her chair in the direction of the nurse's office. She felt Edward behind her, catching up to place two fingers on her shoulder, protective like a sentinel. They reached the nurse's office.

Bella looked up at him to shush him, only once. Quietly, she explained Edward punched a boy for calling Bella crippled. That led to Mrs. Ortiz quickly offering to "turn a blind eye." She checked Edward's knuckles – declaring them bruised, not broken - and offered Edward an icepack. Bella took it from Mrs. Ortiz, who left to do some paperwork.

They sat knee-to-knee. Bella held Edward's hand in her lap and pressed the ice pack against his knuckles tenderly. Their conversation was whispered and intimate, heads together to keep from being overheard.

"Could you tell me why Yorkie is treating you like this?" Edward asked. His tone was patient.

Bella shifted uncomfortably in her chair, then let out such a deep sigh that her hair flew off her forehead.

"He and I had – the…"

Edward raised a single, intrigued eyebrow.

"It's not funny," she warned sternly. "And I shouldn't even begin to tell you."

"Tell me what?" he challenged in a low voice.

Bella looked at him meaningfully with her doe eyes. "Promise you won't – " At the thought of continuing, Bella turned scarlet. "I mean, it's also embarrassing for me."

Edward's face went ashen with disgust as realization dawned. "Oh, Christ."

"Promise you won't make fun of me. Or punch him."

"He kissed you, didn't he? That little pimple kissed you."

Torn between bursting into tears, and bursting into laughter, Bella laughed a hysterical laugh. Edward, however, found nothing comical about the matter. He was studying her intensely, eyes a shade darker. His face contorted solemnly as he studied every detail of her face.

"That must have been fucking disgusting," he concluded, apologetic and morose. "I'm so sorry."

Instinctively, Bella smacked her lips.

"It's not about it being… It's not about the quality of the kiss."

Edward's mouth was agape. "You liked it?" Edward croaked incredulously.

"Of course not," Bella snapped back, then regretted it. Blushing pink, she said, "I just – I just wish he hadn't done it. I didn't want him to kiss me."

Edward swallowed thickly.

"I should've punched him harder."

"No," Bella said snappishly. "You shouldn't have punched him at all, Edward."

"He assaulted you," Edward pointed out darkly, all traces of humor gone from his tone.

"That's a very strong word," Bella said diplomatically. She tugged at his wrist, and he winced. "Let me look at your hand again."

May 2006

"My Dad scheduled an appointment with a fucking psychiatrist," Edward had said to her, spitting out the last noun with distaste. "I asked him to do it. Can you come with me?"

That's how Isabella had ended up outside a psychiatrist's office, awkwardly inspecting the serenely white-and-yellow wallpaper and the painted landscapes on the wall. She sat in her wheelchair, legs pressed neatly together. Having been subjected to seven surgeries throughout the years (muscle lengthening, casting, botox shots), Bella was comfortable with hospitals. She'd brought a book with her – a thin little tome she was reading for school, not for pleasure. Unprecedentedly, she was having a hard time focusing on her book.

Still, in his white lab coat, Carlisle entered the waiting room. Bella offered a half-hearted smile.

"Hi, sweetheart," Carlisle said. As always, he sounded faintly Eeyore-like. Bella lifted her cheek, and they kissed in greeting.

"Hi, Uncle Carlisle," Bella said, a touch dryly. For years, she had been extremely fond of Edward's dad. Bella had spent entire nights wishing Carlisle's gentlemanly pleasantness was a genetic trait. The man was the very archetype of decency – just an all-around kind man. Aunt Lizzie had been very much in love with him for it. The closer she and Edward became, however, the more she'd grown to resent Carlisle. Rather than assuage Edward's crippling guilt, Carlisle sometimes flamed it by omission.

Isabella's anger at Carlisle brewed under the surface of her skin, but her instinctive politeness made her push it back down.

"I thought it was a wonderful idea to encourage Edward to get some help," Carlisle said in a low voice, fervent with gratitude.

Surprised, Bella blinked.

Have you gotten help? Bella wanted to ask. She bit her lip.

"Thank you," Carlisle continued obliviously. "You've been just… just the best friend Edward could have asked for."

A month ago, the compliment would have lit Bella up, warming her from the inside.

"I love him very much," she admitted shyly, even a touch sadly. The admission of platonic love came easily to both, Edward and Isabella.

"He loves you, too," Carlisle said. "Probably more than he knows."

A woman – a normal-looking woman, Bella noted despite herself – announced herself at the receptionist's desk. She wore a well-tailored burgundy pantsuit. Bella took it as a sign that Edward's session with his psychiatrist was almost over. Sighing, she fisted her hands and lifted her body, relieving the pressure on her butt from constant sitting. There was a customized cushion on her chair to distribute the pressure of relentless sitting, but she still had to make sure to relieve the pressure periodically. Then she eased back, expertly, into her wheelchair. She sighed.

"He should be out in a minute," Carlisle explained.

Bella offered a noncommittal mumble, coupled with a thin smile.

Then, rather abruptly, the doorknob to the doctor's office turned. Edward shuffled out, looking strikingly adolescent. "Thanks, Doc," Edward said sheepishly. He offered his pianists' hands for a shake. The doctor – a ruddy-cheeked, large man, clapped his back.

"See you back here for your next appointment, Edward," he said. "I'll talk to your Dad for a bit."

Ignoring everything around him, Edward looked up, meeting Bella's eager gaze. She beamed, eyes bright with encouragement.

Edward rolled his eyes, but his expression was faintly playful. He shuffled towards her, seeking her little hand with his own. Their palms touched, and Edward twined their fingers.

"Christ, Bee, don't look at me that way," he muttered.

Bella cocked her head to the side, confused. "What?"

"You're looking at me with pity," Edward grumbled. "You're the one person on the planet who's never looked at me like that. Fucking stop."

"I'm not looking at you with pity," Bella rolled her eyes, withdrawing her hand. "I'm really proud of you, you stupid moron."

"Same fucking difference," Edward muttered.

"Pity is condescending," Bella said irritably. Edward knew from long talks she hated being stared at with pity. "And pride comes out of love."

Edward had the decency to look mildly ashamed. "What the fuck ever," he muttered back. He sought out her hand again, and she gave it hesitantly. As if looking for a distraction, he traced the crevices of the lines etched on her palms.

Carlisle, who had been watching them curiously, shuffled his feet and stood. He pulled out his wallet and handed Edward a fifty. "In case you kids are hungry," he explained.

"Thanks, Uncle Carlisle," Bella piped immediately.

Still looking at them enquiringly, Carlisle smiled sheepishly to himself as he disappeared into the Doctor's office.

Bella huffed. "Can I ask how it went?"

"Not now," Edward said simply. "We can talk about it later."

"Are you hungry?"

Ever since the Eric Fiasco, as Bella referred to it in her mind, she and Edward had lunch together – alone.

"I'm always hungry."

"Can we go get sushi?" Bella insisted, in the same breath.

He sat back and quirked a playful eyebrow. "Yeah, we can go get sushi. I could use some sushi."

"Where?"

"Wherever the fuck you want," he offered, turning their intertwined hands to kiss her knuckles. Her palms were covered in fingerless gloves, to protect her palms from constant wheeling. Bella's stomach burst into butterflies.

Bella dropped her hands to the wheels of her chair. The motor attached to the rear axle began to whir, making her move faster. Content to move at her pace, Edward followed. At his instruction, Bella waited at the hospital entrance's carport while he paid for parking and fetched the car. She didn't wait long; he left the car running as he helped her stand and pivot into the car.

Gingerly, Bella put her hand on his thigh. Edward stroked her knuckles before putting both hands on the steering wheel.

The waitstaff at new restaurants rarely asked Bella directly for her order: they always asked the person with her, half-assuming her 'caretaker' would feed her. Sometimes, they never even handed her a menu. Because of it, Bella and Edward stuck to their usual roster of restaurants with easy wheelchair access – where the waitstaff knew and loved Bella. They ordered Edamame, salmon nigiri, and tempura to share. Edward ordered a specialty salmon roll, and Bella ordered a salmon California roll, knowing Edward would eat half. "And the kiddy trainer thingies for the chopsticks," Edward added casually.

Furtively, Bella smiled. She didn't have the dexterity to handle chopsticks well and needed the trainers. Edward didn't. He would use the trainers so that she didn't feel alone, and Bella loved him.

It was the third Thursday in May, and they were working on homework out on the Swan's porch, sharing carrot sticks and hummus. Edward was singing a tune under his breath that sounded vaguely like the 'Mr. Brightside.' Edward was on his third week of treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder, taking daily dosages of Zoloft, and he was content. Only Isabella and Carlisle were privy to this very intimate information, which Bella would guard with her life and to her last breath.

Edward called it "being on drugs." Bella called it "the treatment that he needed." In any case, it was a revelation. Where he had once been irritable and snappish, he was even-tempered. Where he once looked chronically tired, Edward now had boundless energy. Where he had once been rude, Edward was now prudent. In the last three weeks of Edward's senior year, Bella and Edward did more activities together than ever before. Suddenly, he wanted to explore bookstores. Visit the Needle. Take up sailing again. Try paintball. Esme had to remind him – none too gently – that Bella was prone to fatigue. The tables turned, and Edward was the one to read while Bella slept.

Happy Edward made Bella glow.

Happy Edward made Bella forget that Eric had become a shadow on her schooldays. Eric had started to treat Bella to violent, pointed silences. He slammed things hard in her presence. He pointedly moved away from her where they'd once sat together in class. He pointedly ignored her when she spoke directly to him. In essence, he was acting with all the indignation Bella felt was her due: ever, instinctively polite, Bella felt guilty towards Eric.

Edward seemed peevishly gleeful at the breakdown of Bella's friendship with Eric. He'd been keeping Bella company at lunch with rigorous discipline, seeming content to ignore his posse of admirers – male and female.

Bella dreaded the following semester. He'd be gone, and Bella would be desperately, desperately alone. She felt as though she were enjoying a particularly delectable dessert, relishing the flavor of a handful of bites – knowing they would soon run out.

"Come to prom with me," Edward said suddenly. With great flourish, Edward dipped a carrot in hummus and took a single, nonchalant bite. At that moment, in his calm, self-assured cockiness, Edward reminded her of Bugs Bunny taunting Elmer Fudd.

In shock, Bella dropped her pencil. Then she burst into peals of laughter. "To hand out punch? While you make prom-king?"

He smiled. "Don't be a smart ass."

"To chaperone you and Lauren?"

"Bell, I'd rather eat fish testicles than go to prom with Lauren Mallory."

Bella burst into laughter.

"Fish don't have testicles," Bella pointed out, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. "They lay eggs. That's the whole premise of finding Nemo."

Edward snorted.

"Answer me, though. Would you come to prom with me?"

Bella's instinct for self-preservation kicked in. "Are you. sure? I can't really dance."

Edward waved her off. "Have you seen modern dancing?" he said with a snort. "It's literally like vertical dry humping –"

Bella screeched in shock.

"-and we're not gonna do that," Edward finished, grinning devilishly.

"People are going to make fun of you," Bella insisted with huge, doleful eyes.

Edward rolled his own eyes. "I own those motherfuckers. Not a single soul is going to say shit. Except maybe Mallory."

Bella's eyes turned to slits, and then she began to gnaw at her lips. "Are you sure? You're not – you're not embarrassed?"

"Why the fuck would I be embarrassed?"

Bella gestured aimlessly at her own body, which treacherously trembled at that moment as if to illustrate her point.

"I'd be embarrassed for you," Bella finally murmured. Unable to meet his gaze, she stared carefully at the swirls in the woodwork, hunched over. "People are going to know it's … out of pity."

Edward groaned a long-winded groan. "Bella, for fuck's sake," he said, so irritably Bella was reminded of Edward emerging from the morass of grief that was his mother's accident. He shifted closer, looking at her pointedly. "I'd like to go to prom with you because - because fuck, yeah, I'll make Prom King, and I should probably be there. And I really can't think of another girl in this entire fucking state that I'd rather spend that evening with, you understand? You're like my favorite fucking person in this goddamned world."

Bella's eyes grew glassy with happy tears. Cheeks blooming pink, she looked down and peeked at him from underneath her eyelashes. "If you say so," she mumbled meekly.

"Besides, Prom fucking sucks. I've told you before. It sucks balls," he repeated, taking another bite of his carrot.

Bella rolled her eyes and smacked him, softly, on the head. "Way to make it appealing for me, you dumbass."

Prom would be the following week, and Bella hid her girlish, intense enthusiasm from her mother – the only person to tell. Bella felt like she could scream girlishly and jump up and down. Her enthusiasm was constantly dampened, until there was nothing but an ember of it left, by variations of the same comment. "That's so sweet of Edward," Esme all but glowed, with the tone she might use to refer to a Pomeranian. "He's such a good boy." Bella's enthusiasm was snuffed out like a candle.

Dipping into her share of the Masen fortune, Esme bought Bella an A-line, floor-length dark blue gown with lacework on the sleeves. They debated the merits and demerits of wearing orthopedic shoes and braces under the dress; Bella was fitted with them. Much to her muted sadness and mortification, she found the braces were visible if she sat.

In the end, Prom was everything that Isabella imagined it would be – given Edward's description of the event. It was poor, fluorescent gym lighting; bunting wrapped around the maroon-and-yellow school walls; the rubbery scent of basketballs; bowls of Tropicana punch; and an endless, unromantic line to the photo booth. It was covert, curious staring from other "couples." It was boys dowsed in Axe and girls in floor-length, bedazzled gowns. It was Edward tensing up whenever anybody approached them, and just like Bella suspected, a few covert cackles from his football team.

Tyler Crowley approached them first, in the long line to get their picture taken.

"Dude, I can't believe you actually – " Tyler's eyes were swimming with mirth and gleeful, mocking incredulity. Like people often did, Tyler spoke about Bella in front of her - as if she couldn't understand the conversation.

Edward's eyes met Bella's, and they flashed with concern. He lifted his gaze to glare at Crowley.

"Shut the fuck up, Crowley."

"I mean, she actually cleans up gorgeous but - " at this, Edward looked torn between preening and scowling – "I can't believe you'd be into this –" and Tyler let his hand flop and his head wobble sideways, as Bella's so often did.

Edward clocked him in the shoulder, grabbed him by the collar, and whispered seethingly into his ears. Raising his eyebrows mockingly, and with one last incredulous laugh, Tyler walked away.

"I'm sorry," Bella squeaked glumly as soon as Tyler was out of earshot. She was crumpling into herself like a piece of soaked paper.

"Fuck that," Edward half-spat immediately. "Don't fucking apologize."

"This probably didn't happen with your other girls," Bella insisted, peering up at him with doleful doe eyes.

Edward huffed. "Let's just take the damn pictures, Bee."

They took three pictures. Bella asked him to hold her up, to walk her to the photo booth. In the first picture, Bella's smile was muted, and Edward's grin was cocky but unhappy. To hold her up, Edward splayed both hands across her waist. A stone's throw from the photographer, Lauren Mallory laughed a laugh like ice water: her eyes were glinting with mocking disdain.

Edward cussed; Bella stiffened, and in response, her body spasmed in a single moment. Edward tensed up to keep his grip on her.

"You OK, darling?"

"I almost want to leave," she admitted meekly in a whisper.

She could feel him shake his head. "Just relax, Bee," Edward murmured hotly into her ear, flashing a movie-star grin in the photographer's direction. As if trying to tickle her, he ran his nose along her jawline, making her shiver and then burst into giggles. Edward's answer, a lop-sided grin was endearing. He half-cradled her as he walked her back to her chair.

"Seriously, Bee, relax the fuck up," Edward insisted.

With a magician's flourish, he took a flask out from his dress jacket, and Bella squealed.

He took a large sip and offered it to her. Wrinkling her nose, Bella sniffed it. "Vodka? Are you even allowed?"

Edward glared at her.

"You're going to need the vodka, too, if you're going get through this evening, Bee."

Bella rolled her eyes and took a sip from the flask.

Edward grinned devilishly.

"Come dance," he offered, as a new song came on. "I'll hold you up."

Shaking her head instinctively, Bella pursed her lips. "Your arms are going to cramp up," she said half-heartedly, though she eyed the makeshift dancefloor almost longingly.

"I'll tell you when they do," he said dismissively. "Come on."

He offered his hands, and Bella took them gingerly. He helped her get up, and then tucked her back safely against his chest, walking them to the dance floor. Their movements were slow; Edward was acting like a human crutch, and Bella was taking the steps. Thump, drag, thump. Bella felt people stop; she felt the staring prickling at her skin, but couldn't tear her eyes from the floor, lest she trip.

When they reached the very edges – couples were staring at them unabashedly - Edward spun her carefully. "We'll just sway back and forth," he whispered, his smile playful. "It's really not that hard. Otherwise, these fucknuts wouldn't be able to do it."

Bella laughed as he crooned the lyrics into her neck.

"I'll be your crying shoulder
I'll be love's suicide
I'll be better when I'm older
I'll be the greatest fan of your life
The greatest fan of your life."