On the Pacific Coast, it was nearing 3 AM. Tipsy and giddy, Isabella Swan tumbled into a leather couch. He had been steadying her, holding her waist to make sure she didn't trip; when she let herself fall into the leather, he almost nosedived after her. Next to them, a clatter.

"Oops," she said sheepishly, and he laughed into her neck. She smelled like strawberries. The wind had made her lustrous, dark hair tangle wildly around her. Her enormous doe eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were still tinted a warm rose. Her skin looked like backlit alabaster. To him, nobody on Earth had ever been so lovely. He felt so madly in love with her that he could burst.

Overwhelmed, he took her face in both of his palms, encasing her sharp cheekbones. He kissed her on the lips once, his dick hardening as she hummed lightly in response. It was almost common knowledge that Isabella Swan was strikingly pretty. She swore people stared for all her "glaring" imperfection – the "Shrek thing," she called it - but he knew better. If anything, that just gave her a lovely fragility. She shied away from the attention she received but captured it anyway.

"You are so beautiful," he told her earnestly. He punctuated it with a kiss to the tip of her pert little nose. She laughed, the sound warming him from the inside out.

Her whole face lit up at the compliment. Her eyes glowed as though was just starting to believe it, which seemed astonishing to him.

"How can you say that?" she asked him, slurring her words. She gestured about her, at the contraptions that had fallen to the floor.

"You are," he said, his voice almost forceful. Laughing at him almost incredulously, she shook her head and turned to take off her shoes. He watched as she bent at the waist to lift her ankle to her thigh, wanting to undo the clasps around her sturdy, wedge sandals. He could imagine the muscle groaning under the strain. He winced in sympathy.

Steadying her hands, he knelt in front of her. Lovingly, he ran his hands across the arches of her feet, up her ankles. Even after all these months, she sucked in a nervous breath, hesitant. He released the clasp below her kneecap, freeing her entire ankle. Gingerly, he felt the places where the smooth skin gave way to raised, corded tissue, where it sunk into scars. To him, they were beautiful. She was beautiful.

Gently, he each foot once the sandals were off.

"Inside and out," he added, lifting her chin.

Less than an hour earlier, the two of them had been at a rooftop party, celebrating her first exhibition. Isabella was an artist to the marrow of her bones, even though she treated photography – her other major – as a "side gig." The photographs were like an extension of her. The camara saw what she saw, and she had a gift for imbuing her subjects with beauty. He hadn't been the only one to notice, and people had complimented her to that effect all evening. Isabella had turned scarlet, peeking at people under her eyelashes, sinking into her seat, incapable of taking the compliment. With every blush, she stole his heart a little more.

She worked as a Program Director at the Millennium Foundation, approving grants for all kinds of social programs. She loved it; she had bookcases lined up with grant proposals, Impact and Program reports. If he were to flip through any of them, they'd be dotted with her comments in her perfect cursive, all the lovelier because she had struggled with holding the pencil. Those programs she was so passionate about had been the subjects of the exhibition. How she could imbue the participants in a needle exchange program with such dignity, he couldn't imagine. That somebody so lovely could love him was almost miraculous.

She pushed herself forward with both hands. Keeping one hand on the edge of the sofa, she cupped his jaw in her hand. "Thank you," she said earnestly, her doe eyes huge. She threaded her fingers lovingly through his hair, rubbing his scalp. She kissed him, gently at first. It was a conversation of a kiss. He closed his eyes at the sensation for a minute, enjoying it. His dick stood even taller, and he pressed his erection against her knee suggestively.

"Wow," she murmured. "Somebody really wants to go to bed, huh?"

His lips curved into a crooked grin under her next kiss. "Do you want to go to bed?"

He pulled away briefly, nuzzling her nose. Her eyes sparkled.

"Yes."

He needed no further instruction.

In a split second, he tucked his arm under her knees, lifting her bridal style. Every now and then, it hurt to lift her like this – more because she needed it and less because she wanted it. She squealed. Settled, she rubbed her little nose against his jaw. The feeling of it distracted him as he made his way to their bedroom. Somehow, he managed. He shouldered the door to the master bedroom open and then gently propped her on the edge of the bed.

Isabella dressed impeccably, not because she cared to dress her part – the daughter of an elite society couple – but because she had an eye for color, for symmetry. He grabbed the hem of her blouse – an ivory, lace-covered tank top - and pulled it over her, tracing his fingers along the lone scar in her spine. The first time he'd seen her naked, he'd been careful to kiss every scar as it was revealed to him. Ever since, he traced them softly with the pads of his fingers in greeting. There was nothing about her that could come close to being ugly.

It was not, he mused, the worst way to pay for another man's sins.

Just as eagerly, she untucked his dress shirt and began fiddling with its buttons. Disrupting her work, he placed both hands on her narrow waist, lifting her by it so she could pull down her pants. She wore bright red palazzo pants in a light fabric, adorned with a ribbon-like belt. She pulled them down, revealing simple black cotton underwear. Frankly, she didn't need any other bullshit to turn him on. She was so beautiful that just the sight of her porcelain skin gave him goosebumps. The pants pooled at her feet, which dangled. He picked up the pants and tossed them messily on a corner ottoman.

Eager, he took off his dress shirt and the white shirt underneath, tossing it so the same footstool. Ever gentle with her, he lifted her legs and draped them on the bed.

"Don't you want me to take care of that?" she asked, too intense to be playful, sitting up on her elbows. She looked pointedly at his prominent erection, straining against his boxers. Her face genuinely confused, her brow wrinkled in concentration as if she expected it to answer. So fucking cute.

"No, my love," he whispered, smiling against her neck. "I want to take care of you."

He started to crawl over her, gently dragging her with him to the center of the bed.

He began kissing the space between her clavicles, tracing kisses across her flat stomach, moaning when he reached her arousal. He lifted her lower back with his wide palm – and pushed down her panties. Tossing them to the side, he began kissing her, from the tip of her toes to her thighs. He was careful to kiss every scar on the way to his destination, blowing hot air, feeling her fingers reach for him.

She cried out his name as he began to kiss the spot around her clit, as he teased it with light flicks of his tongue. She tangled her fingers in his hair again, squirming with every pass of his tongue, arching her hips as best she could. It could have been minutes. It could have been an eternity, but before long, she was begging, mewling under him. Her entire body trembled. She was on the edge of a precipice. He sucked hard on the little nub, and she screamed. He didn't pull away until she collapsed, relaxed onto the mattress.

He crawled up her and rested his head on her taut stomach. As she caught her breath, he traced shapes around her belly button, fascinated. He hummed appreciatively as she ran his fingers through his hair, massaging gently. Before her, nobody had shown him such simple affection. He lived for it – for the way she gently brushed her fingers against his stubble, for soft pecks on the cheek. But nothing beat being inside her, making love to her.

"I want to be inside you," he said, his dick still throbbing. He rested his chin lightly on her sternum and looked up.

Playfully, eyes aglow, Isabella smiled.

Needing no further instruction, he settled over her. He began to trail kisses up her stomach, spreading her legs to accommodate himself in between her thighs.

"Is this OK?" They had made love in all kinds of ways to make it easier on her. He had loved every second of it, but he didn't exactly know yet which was most comfortable for her. A part of him was still hesitant. He didn't want to hurt her. He would never forgive himself if he hurt her.

Almost forcefully, she nodded. She threaded her fingers sharply through his hair and pulled gently, prompting him on. He groaned.

He grabbed his prick to line up at her entrance, almost brushing her clit. Still sensitive from minutes earlier, she let out a breathy gasp. A moan. Satisfied, he began to spread her legs apart with his torso, feeling the dampness against his stomach. He groaned. Her muscles gave out, tightening. He cringed, not wanting to hurt her. She didn't necessarily flinch, but she took in a sharp breath as she adjusted to the sensation of her muscles stretching. Above her, his arms trembled.

"We can … God, baby, we can stop if it hurts."

"It's OK," she cooed into his neck, comforting him. "I trust you…Oh, God…"

He felt her tightening just at the sensation of his cock poking into her entrance and he hissed. She gasped softly against his neck, her fingers tightening against the muscles of his back. He pushed in, almost exploding at the sensation.

Fuck.

"I love you," he gasped as he pushed the entire way in. She breathed out a whine into his neck; he could feel her thick, dark eyelashes batting against his jaw.

"I love you so much," he said again, desperately, feeling like he could fuck weep. Below, she tightened around him.

"I love you, too." Hearing her say it made his heart constrict, expand, burst. He grunted, resting more weight against her than he would dream of doing if he wasn't so enraptured. She hadn't said it before.

She seemed to like it, though, starting to squirm like a worm. He dropped his finger to her spot and began fingering it quickly. She started to pant; she couldn't quite match the rhythm, but he felt her squirming.

It didn't take many more thrusts until he finally spilled inside her, cursing. He almost collapsed on her, waiting limply. Her own orgasm subsided with one last scream. Grinning, he pulled out and rolled next to her, pulling her into his arms. He brushed feather-light kisses on her cheekbones, her nose, her forehead.

He couldn't imagine that anybody ever had loved her more than he did in that exact moment.

"Marry me, Isabella."

On the East Coast, Edward Cullen touched the tips of his fingers to the headboard, feeling his toes curling around the sheets. Frosted autumn air filtered through the windows, encasing the girl around his arms with light. Her dark hair on his chest tickled. Sighing, he brushed his fingers against her ear, gathering her hair into a more manageable ponytail. He hated that the gesture could be described as tender, but he had long since decided he did not want to hurt a woman again.

Edward had hurt one girl – one he loved more than anything - enough to last him a lifetime.

He reached for the phone, his chest swelling with emotion as he saw the first pop-up notification. Isabella Swan. His lips curled into a grin as he read his first message of the day, the last she sent him the night before across an entire coastline.

Isabella Swan

1:36 AM

Rose told me 95% of modelling is gay men telling you your nipples look like salami.

He laughed. The sound burst from his deep in his chest, making it vibrate. Above his vibrating chest, Heidi stirred, eyes opening. He didn't notice. He was too busy typing a response, trying to remember exactly when and how this conversation had started. Frankly, most of his days melted away texting back and forth with her. Isabella had been his friend – his best friend – for so long that every conversation with her felt like slipping into pajamas after a day out in dress clothes.

That last text was the last link in the longest conversation of his life. Isabella had been there, gently prying him out of the darkness since he was fourteen. She understood him as other people did not. He felt marked by this very public tragedy, a tragedy that still hurt after all this time, and he had felt so marked by it. Back then, he had felt like he had it tattooed on his forehead against his own volition, like it hung over every interaction with every person. He hated the pity, the stares.

She understood him perfectly, and he… he squandered that.

He set the phone down and gently lifted Heidi off him. He sat up in bed and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. His mouth felt like sandpaper and his temples were throbbing, a dull ache reminded him he'd gotten drunk yesterday. Drunk with Heidi, a bottle of Tequila and a handful of other spoiled brats. Bella had been right when she'd said his life at Harvard reminded her of a Gossip Girl re-run.

Heidi had been all over him, touching and rubbing his arms as though it were magnetic. A Harvard doctor, she had repeated, touting him as though he were a prized Teacup Yorkie. Heidi had probably come to regret the entire evening. Edward had delivered, droning on and on about the role of dorsal root ganglia, fascinated because he'd literally watched a pediatric neurosurgeon perform a rhizotomy hours earlier.

Edward scrolled up his texts with Isabella, making sure he hadn't sent anything particularly tactless the night before while drunk. Hurting her with tactless comments was all he ever did.

Edward C

10:00 PM

I wish I could be there tonight.

Isabella Swan

10:05 PM

I don't. One less person to watch me crash and burn.

Edward C

10:06 PM

Stfu. You ARE the next Annie Liebowitz. You could do it for a living.

Isabella Swan

10:15 PM

(A) You're SO biased and (B) I'd do it if I could photograph interesting stuff – you know, like glaciers or war zones.

That one had hurt for a million reasons. He'd put away the phone and clutched at his stomach as if the words had literally punctured it. She could photograph nature – she'd been doing it all her life. Isabella had told him that in a different lifetime, she would've enjoyed journalism as a career choice. Edward had been relieved. He didn't want her running around in places where she could trip, fall, hurt herself. Or just as badly – places where she'd be stuck because they couldn't fucking comply with federal fucking law.

Edward

11:30 PM

I hear the fashion industry is interesting.

Isabella Swan

01:35 AM

The fashion industry is brutal.

Briefly, he had wondered if that was meant as a barb at his current… whatever-Heidi-was. He and Isabella were trying to be friends, pretending to talk about dates and significant others as they would with any fucking friend. When they'd reached that impasse, he had promised that he would even say a fucking toast at her fucking wedding, though he still imagined he'd be the fucking groom. Every attempt at that friendship thing stung a little, chipping away at his heart. It hurt that she was clearly falling in love with somebody else. When the jealousy made him sick to his stomach, he told her about Heidi. Some of it was literally a bald-faced lie.

Isabella Swan

01:36 AM

Rose told me 95% of modelling is having gay men telling you your nipples look like salami.

Edward smiled at that one again. He started typing out a reply, giggling like a fucking kid.

Edward Cullen

9:15 AM

Technically, areolas look like salami. I thought you paid attention in anatomy, Bee.

He'd been so distracted scrolling up and down the conversation that he didn't notice Heidi crawl up towards him. She kneeled against his back. He felt her mood darken, her tone bristling.

"You're always texting her," Heidi said. Her tone was carefully neutral, but Edward could just see her eyes hardening in his mind's eye.

"Yes," he said simply, not even bothering to hide his irritation. "You shouldn't be fucking snooping."

He rose from the bed and stretched languidly, his bones cracking. Even after all this time, he was still cocky – he didn't care that his ass was exposed, his balls almost flapping in the wind.

"What is she, again?"

Edward's good mood dissipated as if she had doused him with a bucket of cold water. He'd never liked that kind of question thrown around Isabella, feeling instantly defensive. He remembered how Isabella's shoulders would shrink imperceptibly with a mixture of shame and irritation when people asked questions like that.

"What?" he hissed, sticking his head out the bathroom. He cast her a sideways glance, without turning his head.

"Like your relationship to her," Heidi clarified.

Edward bit back the urge to laugh bitterly. What was Isabella to him? A childhood sweetheart, an accomplice, a confidant? His best friend? His only friend? The love of his life? The one that got away? To quote Orson Scott fucking Card, an echo of himself at his time of deepest sorrow?

"She's my Aunt's stepdaughter," he said.

Suddenly, he was glad he was buck naked. It gave him an excuse to walk away. Tartly, quickly, he walked towards the dresser. Rattling like a kettle about to boil, he began to look for pants. He figured it was a good time as any to go jogging. He threw on a long-sleeved t-shirt.

"Your Aunt? The one that raised you in Seattle?" Heidi asked again.

"That's the one," he said curtly, not wanting to dwell on any of this. He turned sharply on his heel.

"So she's almost like… almost like your step-sister," Heidi supplied, torn between relief and another emotion.

Her words stung. Was there a point in correcting her?

Despite everything he ever said to Isabella on the subject, he wasn't emotionally close to Heidi. He didn't want her to poke at this. They'd only been together for six weeks, and Isabella was like the most vulnerable part of his being. Talking about her felt like holding out his heart in the palm of his hand.

He shut down. He cast a look at Heidi, naked in his bed, knowing he was being an asshole. Knowing that his reaction was going to warrant a conversation in an hour or so. Knowing he'd have to say something if he wanted to salvage the relationship – if Heidi had any self-respect.

"We can talk about that story later," he said. His voice was ice-smooth.

Robotically, he grabbed his phone and his wireless headphones. He brushed his fingers against the top of her head, a nonchalantly affectionate gesture, and stormed out of the house. Listening to loud Eminem, the volume cranked to its full potential, he barreled down the hallway. The cold air hurt. He stretched out in the Cambridge sunlight.

He ran.