AN: sorry for the delay. Life. Sadly, it takes priority. I plan to finish this. It just may take me a while. Thanks for hanging out.

To May and Bri for allowing me to keep sending my drabble to them. I'm super annoying and they are angels.

This has been re-read, beta, and if I still missed something and you find a mistake, please PM me, I would love to fix it.

Thanks, my lovelies.

SM owns everything.

Chapter Twenty

-OMW-

Nearly ten years ago

I stared blankly as the buzzer signaled the end of the game. The scoreboard says: 31 to 28. Port Angeles, the Roughriders, take the win. It was so close, too. All we had to do to beat Fork's most prominent rival was to get one touchdown. It was poised to look that way, but our star quarterback was being rushed and took the snap way too soon, bypassing Emmett and sealing the deal.

There was a hush over the crowd as reality sunk in. Fork's lost the state championship, and the whole school was heartbroken, just like me. However, their heartbreak was directed toward the school's morale, and mine was aching for my only concern and true love: Edward Anthony Cullen. I knew him better than I knew myself, and he took the loss the hardest. The pressure my boy put on his shoulders wasn't healthy, but he was a perfectionist, determined to be the greatest and to prove everyone wrong.

I scanned the field for Edward, but during the gut-wrenching chaos, I had lost sight of him, and now he was gone.

An ice-cold wave of panic washed over me, "No, no, no," I said under my breath.

Running down the bleachers, I kept looking for Edward everywhere, but he had vanished, disappeared without warning. My eyes fell on my brother, though, who stood out like a towering statue amidst the chaos, frozen on the field, a solitary figure as his team left him there. Emmett's broad shoulders, usually so proud and defiant, were slumped in defeat; the very essence of his exuberant personality diminished. His helmet dangled from his hand, scraping the ground as if he lacked the energy to hold it longer.

The sight of him tugged at my heart, and I wanted to comfort him, but I hesitated. Rosalie was already there, her arms wrapped around him as she whispered something into his ear. I knew he would be okay. Not Edward, though. He was alone, probably beating himself up, and I refused to let him spiral again.

Saying goodbye to Ang and Jessica, I hopped on my bike and rode as fast as possible to Edward's house, hoping to beat him there. My heart was pounding in time with the rhythmic thud of my feet against the pedals. The streets blurred around me as the wind whipped my hair into a frenzy. Anxiety clawed at my chest, a tightening knot that only grew with each passing second. The urgency to reach him was an overwhelming force, propelling me forward.

My thoughts were a tangled mess of worry and determination.

What had happened to him?

Was he okay?

What would I say when I saw him?

I couldn't shake the image of Edward's face, how his eyes had darkened with unspoken turmoil before he vanished. It was as if he had retreated into a shell, cutting himself off from everything and everyone. The thought of him dealing with this alone was unbearable, a relentless ache that drove me onward.

By the time I reached his house, my legs were burning, and my breath was coming out in ragged gasps. The air was sharp and cold, stinging my lungs with every intake, but I barely noticed. My mind was focused on one thing—getting to Edward. Dropping my bike in the driveway, I took a moment to steady myself, feeling the tremors in my hands as I ran them through my tangled hair. The porch was only a few steps away, but it felt like miles. I walked up to the top stair, the old wood creaking beneath my feet, and sat down heavily, the cold seeping through my jeans.

The house loomed quietly in the gathering dusk, its windows dark and silent, as if holding its breath. How had I managed to beat him here? Maybe I'd slipped into some otherworldly dimension where time didn't move the same way. Or perhaps I'd been so consumed by the thought of seeing him that I'd flown here on sheer adrenaline. Either way, I was alone, and the reality of that hit me with a hollow thud.

Taking out my phone, I pulled up the last text we sent to each other, my thumb brushing over the screen as if the simple act of touching his words could somehow bridge the growing distance between us.

November 7, 2013, 8:56 pm:

Edward: "saw you sporting another Band-Aid. What didcha do? Trip over the air?"

Me: "ugh, no! I tripped down the stairs! Agh! You're such a doucheward!"

Edward: "haha, whatever, Bruiser."

That was two days ago.

Two long, endless days where I'd checked my phone more times than I could count, hoping for another message, another piece of him to hold onto. I craved these little interactions with him, replaying them in my mind like a favorite song, each word echoing in my head, reminding me of what I could never have. I cherished them when they happened, even when they came with his teasing, his playful jabs that never failed to make my heart skip a beat.

But I wasn't stupid. I knew where I stood with Edward Cullen. All I was, all I would ever be, was his best friend's little sister. The girl he laughed with teased but never saw in any way beyond that.

The thought made my chest ache, and I bit my lip, the metallic taste of blood sharp on my tongue. Maybe I should go home. What was I even doing here? The last person Edward would want to see was me, sitting here like some lovesick fool on his porch.

Standing up, I left the porch, the wood groaning in protest beneath my weight as I descended the steps. Grabbing my bike, I felt the cold metal under my hand, grounding me in the moment. I was just about to push off, to ride away, before I embarrassed myself any further when my phone buzzed in my back pocket.

The sound was like a jolt of electricity, stopping me in my tracks. I rested my bike on my leg and reached for my phone, my heart hammering in my chest as I pulled it out. My breath caught when I saw his name flash on the screen, and I nearly dropped it in my rush to open the message.

November 9, 2013, 9:28 pm:

Edward: "im at the rock."

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely type, but I managed a quick reply.

November 9, 2013, 9:28 pm:

Me: "omw"

I pushed off and rode toward our little spot in the woods. We found it a year ago when I tagged along with my brother and Edward fishing. I'm not sure if I claimed it or if he did, but it turned into a place where we could go when we needed to be alone to think.

The path to the woods was familiar, a winding trail of dirt and fallen leaves leading to the secluded area Edward loved. It was a bit out of town and close to the Rez, and I think what drew us to the spot so much was the seclusion and forbidden borders.

Once I found the patch by the road, I got off my bike and walked it into the large, dark trees. The creatures were oddly silent like there was a predator nearby, and that survival instinct told me to turn around, but I refused to listen. What mattered more to me than anything was finding the boy who made my heart beat. I could be brave for him.

But, man, after what seemed like forever of anxiety, tripping over my own feet, I came to the clearing and saw Edward's silhouette on our rock. His shoulders slumped in defeat. My heart ached at the sight of him like this. Edward was always so strong, so sure of himself, but now he seemed so vulnerable.

"Edward," I called softly, not wanting to startle him.

He didn't look up, but I could see his shoulders tense at the sound of my voice. Slowly, I walked over and sat down next to him.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered as my hand hovered just above his, so close that I could feel the faint warmth radiating from his skin.

I wanted so badly to hold his hand.

But I couldn't.

I shouldn't.

He was my brother's best friend, older and more experienced, someone who had always been a little out of my league. And I was just a kid, really, still trying to figure things out. What if he thought I was just some silly girl with a crush? What if he pulled away, or worse, what if he felt nothing?

I bit my lip, fighting the urge to close my fingers around his, and my heart pounded in my chest, so loud and painful. Each beat was a reminder of the boundaries I had to respect.

So, instead, I slowly withdrew my hand, letting it fall into my lap as I tried to swallow the lump forming in my throat. The silence between us was heavy, filled with everything I wanted to say but couldn't.

He finally looked up at me, his eyes filled with pain and frustration. "I just… I'm not perfect, you know?"

You're perfect to me, I said in my head, but what came out of my mouth was trembling with emotion. "No one expects you to be perfect."

Edward scoffed, "Sure," and his eyes, usually so expressive, were now shuttered and guarded.

I said, "Everyone loves you, no matter..." and he groaned, immediately cutting me off mid-sentence.

"That's bullshit, Bella," he snapped at me.

His words hit me harder than I expected, and for a moment, I was hurt and felt like I was doing more harm than good.

Looking away from him, I stared down at my fingers twisting together in my lap as I searched for something, anything, that might help, but all I could muster was a measly, "I'm sorry."

Edward let out a harsh breath and shoved his hands into his hair. "Fuck! I didn't mean to be an asshole," he muttered. "I just… I know what everyone expects out of me and I'm just stupid enough to do it."

I could see the battle he was fighting with himself, the torn between wanting to be everything for everyone and knowing it was an impossible task.

And I was his worst offender.

How many times had I put him on a pedestal? So much so he wasn't even a boy anymore, just this god-like figure that I would never be good enough for.

So, ashamed of my actions, I decided to see him, and really looked, trying to get past the perfection I'd always imagined.

His eyes, usually piercing and intense, were filled with something more vulnerable. I let my gaze drift over his face, searching for those imperfections he wanted me to acknowledge.

I noticed the faint sheen of oil on his forehead and the small cluster of pimples near his hairline that he tried to hide beneath his tousled hair. There were a few more on his chin, where he'd likely rubbed at his skin without thinking. His complexion wasn't flawless—like any other sixteen-year-old, with the blemishes I'd overlooked in my desire to see him as perfect.

His lips, which I'd always thought perfectly shaped, were slightly chapped, a bit of dry skin catching the light. His nose, instead of being the sculpted feature I'd built up in my mind, had a slight bump near the bridge, something I'd never really noticed before.

I half-hoped and expected to be turned off by his flaws, but it backfired. I was more hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him.

The imperfections I had found weren't repellent; they were endearing, making him more human and accessible in a way I hadn't anticipated.

I sighed, feeling the weight of that realization settle over me. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.

He frowned slightly, confusion flickering across his face. "Why do you keep saying sorry? What are you so sorry about?"

For still seeing you as perfect and setting a standard you'll never be able to live up to, I thought.

"For everything, I guess. I'm sorry you feel like you have to live up to other people's expectations," I said, and I should have left it at that, but my need to make him feel better overruled me. "You have to know that's not true, right?"

His eyebrows raised. "What?"

"Well, you know?" I gave him a sad smile. "You know?"

That frustration was back again. "Bruiser, what are you doing? Why are you acting weird?"

I gasped. "What?"

He groaned. "You're saying shit to make me feel better."

"I'm sorry."

"Fucking stop saying that."

"I'm so—no, I mean. I don't know. I'm so confused." Nothing I was saying was right. "Maybe I should leave."

"No!" Edward spun his body towards me so fast that it nearly knocked me over. We were so close our cold breaths mingled as one. His eyes were intense. "Look, I fucking know everyone is going to pat me on the back on Monday and tell me the shit you're saying now. Their words are going to be as hollow as fuck. I don't want that from you."

I swallowed, my throat tight. "Then what do you want from me?"

"Just fucking be real with me, Bella. No more trying to protect my feelings or say what you think I want to hear. I can handle the truth."

I was telling him the truth—my truth.

But he wanted the truth he believed.

"Even if the truth hurts," I said.

He nodded, his gaze never leaving mine. "Especially if it hurts. I'd rather face that than live in some fantasy where everything's okay when it's not."

My heart pounded in my chest, but when I opened my mouth to speak, nothing came out. How could I tell him the "truth" when I knew it would hurt him?

It took all my courage and I still whispered, "It's not that simple."

His gaze hardened, searching my face for something I wasn't ready to give. "What do you mean?"

I hesitated, then shook my head slightly. "I just… I don't want to hurt you."

He sighed, the frustration evident in his eyes, but he didn't push further. "Alright, Bella. I get it."

But the look on his face told me he didn't. Not really. And that was what scared me the most.

"I can listen, though," I said softly.

"And you won't try to make me feel better?"

"I'll just listen. I promise."

For a moment, he didn't say anything, just kept his eyes on me as if deciding whether or not he could trust that.

Finally, he nodded, letting out a slow breath. "I feel like shit for letting so many people down." As a reflex, I opened my mouth to defend him, but he shot me a sharp glare. "You promised, Bruiser."

I bit down on the inside of my cheek, the sting sharp, a reminder to stay quiet. It was hard—so much harder than I thought it would be.

Edward was still watching me, probably waiting for me to break my word, tell him what I always did—that it wasn't his fault, that he wasn't a disappointment.

But I couldn't.

Not this time.

So I just nodded, though my throat ached with the effort of staying quiet.

Edward rubbed his palms over his face as if trying to wipe away the frustration, but it clung to him. "It's like, no matter how hard I try, I can't get it right. I'm always falling short, and people keep expecting more." His hands dropped, and his eyes found mine again. "How do you not hate me for that?"

I flinched at his words, my heart stumbling. I wanted to say something so badly—something to prove to him that he was wrong, that he was enough, more than enough. But all I could do was sit there, feeling the weight of what he was saying crush me, too.

"I don't hate you," I whispered, hoping it wasn't too much, hoping it wouldn't break the promise.

"Thanks, Bruiser," Edward murmured as his shoulders slumped. He stared at the ground, his fingers picking at the frayed edges of his hoodie.

I could tell he wasn't done talking, even though the words seemed stuck somewhere deep inside him, too heavy to push out.

Then, in a voice so low I almost missed it, he said, "It would be easier if I could love something more than football."

I blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"

His eyes flicked up to meet mine for a split second, then dropped again. "I don't know… it's just… I've been doing this for so long, you know? Everyone expects it. The pressure, the expectations—it's all I think about. But sometimes, I wish I had something else. Something that made it worth giving up."

The air between us felt heavy like we were standing at the edge of something neither of us fully understood yet.

"You mean… like a hobby or something?" I asked, feeling a little out of my depth.

"No, not a hobby. Something more important than all of this." His voice grew a little stronger, but there was still a thread of uncertainty beneath it. "Something I could love enough to make walking away from football not feel like the end of the world."

I swallowed, not sure what to say. I wasn't used to Edward talking like this. Football had always seemed like his everything—the thing that defined him. But now… he sounded almost lost like he was searching for something else, something he hadn't found yet.

His gaze met mine again, this time steady, and I could see the weight of everything he wasn't saying in his eyes. "I don't even know if that kind of thing exists for me."

I wanted to tell him it did. Maybe there was something—or someone—who could be enough to make him see that football didn't have to be his whole world. But my chest tightened, and the words got stuck before I could say them.

"I guess it's just easier to keep going, right?" He let out a hollow laugh. "Easier to stick to what everyone expects, even if it feels like it's crushing you."

I nodded, feeling a familiar ache spread through me. I knew what it was like to feel trapped by expectations, to think maybe—just maybe—there was something else out there worth fighting for.

Present Day

Forty agonizing minutes later, my phone buzzes. It's Edward, asking me to meet him back at his hotel room. Elation fills my chest, and without my girls, I rush back to the Bellagio, torn between eagerness to see him and fear of what I might find—the "what ifs" plague my thoughts. I try to shrug it off and be there for him—no matter what. Easier said than done.

When I finally stand outside his door, uncertainty grips me. My right fist hovers, ready to knock, but I hesitate. I raise it several times, freezing before my knuckles can connect. What if he's angry? What if he blames me for the loss? My mind spirals with worst-case scenarios. I reassure myself that Edward loves me and needs me right now. But a nagging fear continues to gnaw at me. The game's loss hit Edward hard, and I've never seen him close off like this before. What if it's too much for him to handle?

My hands tremble, and I keep wringing them together, trying to stop the shaking. My heartbeat thuds in my ears, each beat louder than the last. I bite my lip hard enough to taste a hint of blood, but it doesn't distract me from the knot of worry twisting in my stomach. I take a deep breath, steady my nerves, and raise my hand to knock. My knuckles barely graze the wood before I pull back, second-guessing myself. Oh my god, what if he brought me here to break up with me?

"No, I can't do this," I whisper and, like a coward, turn to leave.

"Bella?"

"Huh?" I swing back around.

Edward stands at his door, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. Fresh out of the shower, his hair is slicked back and still wet, making him look effortlessly hot. His designer clothes fit him like a glove, highlighting his perfect physique. I can't help but stare, my mind spinning. How could someone this gorgeous, practically perfect, ever want someone like me?

"Oh! Hey," I reply sheepishly, my face and neck flaming with embarrassment from him catching me trying to leave.

"You weren't taking off, were you?" he asks.

"Um," I falter, shrugging in response.

Edward nods, understanding. "Come here."

Before I can meet him halfway, he pulls me into a tight hug. His face is buried in my hair, breathing me in deeply. When we break apart, Edward leans in and kisses my lips. The sensation is electric, sending a warm rush through my entire body. It's soft yet intense, filling me with relief and joy. Worries and doubts melt away in that moment, leaving only the pure connection between us.

"Sorry about earlier, Bruiser. I wasn't handling it well," he says softly, his breath mingling with mine.

A blush creeps up my cheeks as I smile, my heart racing from the kiss. "It's okay," I whisper, my voice shaky.

"No, it's not," he says, more stern and insistent now. "I treated you like shit, Bella—and that is never okay."

"You didn't, though," I say honestly. "You just wouldn't talk about what happened. It scared me."

Edward looks into my eyes, his own filled with regret. "I didn't want to burden you with my bullshit."

"But that's what I'm here for. In good times and bad, we're there for each other. We took vows."

He smirks. "I'm pretty sure the only thing we vowed to was to always share our ice cream."

Boy, is he cute, but I won't be distracted. "The point is," I say, drawing out the last word so he really listens to me, "we're in this together. You and me, no one else. We're a team, right?"

He nods, placing his hand on my stomach. "Yeah, we're a team."

My hand covers his, and it feels complete. "Just… promise you'll always talk to me, okay?"

"I promise." There's a playful smile tugging at his lips. "Hey. Thanks for putting up with my brooding."

"Please," I say, rolling my eyes, "I've been doing it for years." As I step around him and move further into the room, I see his luggage, stuffed and zipped, piled in the corner. "You're already packed?"

Edward closes the door, and the lock clicks softly. "We're heading back to Seattle tonight."

I blink, taking in his words. "But the game ended barely two hours ago."

He nods, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. "After a loss like this, we get no days off. The coach wants us back to regroup and start training again immediately."

"Oh, baby. I'm sorry," I say, my heart aching for him. "That's a bummer."

"That's just how it goes," he shrugs.

"You guys deserve a minute to breathe."

"There's no time to breathe. We have to stay focused."

Goodness me, I am starting to hate that word: focus.

"Should I go pack then? When do we leave?"

"I leave in an hour," he says.

My heart drops. "You leave in an hour? As in, I'm staying here?"

"Yeah, I have to fly back with the team. It's non-negotiable." His eyes brighten. "But you don't have to leave. Your room is booked until Tuesday. Enjoy Vegas, use the card I gave you, just have fun." For the first time since this morning, he smiles, and it's genuine. "I've arranged for you and our friends to fly back home first class."

"Oh, I see," I say, trying to understand but still feeling like he's abandoning me. And I don't hide it well.

"Shit. You're upset," he says, his voice softening with concern.

"No, I'm fine," I try to deny it, shaking my head and looking away. But the effort is futile; my façade crumbles under his steady gaze. "This whole thing just sucks. You're leaving, and we haven't spent any time together."

"I know, honey. Come on, let's sit down for a minute," Edward leads me to the sofa with a gentle hand on my lower back.

We sit down, and our voices collide, a tangle of words.

"I didn't want you to feel like…"

"Edward, I didn't want to…"

Laughter bubbles up between us, and with a playful wave of his hand, he gestures, "You first."

"I'm sorry about how this morning went down with your coach and the things that were said," I say, my voice breaking.

"Don't be," he replies instantly, his voice firm.

"No, but I am. I mean, I'm partly responsible. If I wouldn't have texted you last night, we wouldn't have been caught, and you wouldn't be feeling—"

"Hey, no. Just stop, okay? This is not your fault. This one is all on me," Edward cuts me off, his hands cupping my face as he stares into my eyes. "Whatever the consequences, I will never regret one fucking minute with you. Do you understand?"

I nod, biting down on my bottom lip so hard I draw blood to keep the tears at bay.

"Besides, I'm the one who let the team down," he says, his face contorting with self-hate and doubt, reminiscent of his behavior on the field.

"That's not true. You didn't let anyone down, babe. Everyone is so proud of you," I say, wanting to be there for him in any way I can. "You kicked some major butt out there!"

"Same old, Bruiser." Edward smiles a little, and I blush, knowing exactly what he means. That quickly fades, and he's back to our somber reality. "Anyway, it wasn't enough, was it?" He lets out a deep breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. "This fucking sucks." He looks away, guilt shadowing his features, his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor as if grappling with an invisible force.

Everything in me wants to hold him, but I'm afraid he'll see it as pity, or worse—like I'm trying to fix something I can't. So, I wait, giving him space, even though I'm bursting inside.

"I don't want to leave like this, but I don't have a choice. The coach is being an even bigger dick now. Acting all fucking smug." He pauses, running a hand through his hair, frustration etched on his face. "It's like… none of this even matters anymore, you know?" His voice drops, the bitterness giving way to something softer, something defeated. "Not the way it used to."

His words linger in the air, and I can hear what he's not saying—football isn't the whole world to him anymore.

Something else is.

Maybe it's me.

"Doesn't matter, my plans are all fucked now." Edward takes a deep breath and then says quietly, more gently, "I wanted to make this weekend special for us, Bruiser."

"Yeah?" I shift our bodies closer so there's not an inch between us. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"My plan, if we had won, was to take you and our friends out to dinner," Edward says, still avoiding my eyes but keeping hold of my hand, tracing gentle patterns on my palm. "Afterward, we would all go to The Venetian, do the Gondola ride…" He pauses, and though my mind races, I stay silent, waiting for him to finish. Taking a deep breath, he looks more vulnerable than I've ever seen him. "And that's when I would ask you…" His hand moves toward the front pocket of his duffel bag, fingers brushing the zipper—Rinnnng.

The sharp ring slices through the moment, abrupt and jarring, pulling us both back from the edge of something unspoken yet heavy. My heart stumbles, and I watch as Edward's expression hardens, his eyes narrowing as he pulls out his phone. He glances at the screen, and for a split second, I wonder if he'll ignore it.

But he answers, his voice clipped and distant. "Yeah, I'm coming down."

The room feels colder, and emptier. I watch his face, searching for some flicker of the vulnerability I saw just moments ago, but it's already slipping away, locked behind the guarded mask he wears so well.

He hangs up and looks at me, his regret as plain as the shadows under his eyes. "I have to go," he says, the words heavy with apology.

I nod, but it's mechanical. The weight between us is crushing, a thousand unsaid things pressing against my chest, but all I manage is, "Okay." I hate how flat it sounds, how far from the tangled mess inside me.

His smile is small, and sad—more like an apology than an expression of love. He leans in, his lips brushing my forehead, and I try to memorize the feel of it, the warmth of him so close before it vanishes. "I love you," he whispers.

"I love you," I say, desperately wanting to keep him here, but I don't do anything. I just watch as he picks up his duffel bag and walks out of the room.

The door clicks shut behind him, and the stillness that follows is suffocating. I stare at the space where he stood, my heart pounding in the silence. The question he never asked hangs in the air, a ghost of a moment that slipped away before I could grasp it.

The faint scent of him lingers, but it's already fading, just like the warmth of his kiss on my forehead. I take a deep breath, but it feels shallow like my lungs can't fully expand. Everything feels unfinished, suspended in some kind of emotional limbo. The room is too quiet now, too big.

I close my eyes, wishing I could go back to just a few moments ago—before the phone rang before he had to leave—when everything felt like it was on the verge of something important.

But that moment's gone. I'm alone with nothing but the questions swirling in my mind and the hollow ache in my chest.

Whatever he was going to say, it will have to wait.

I don't know if I can.

Thanks for reading.