A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts!

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.


The End in Three Parts.

Part I: This Time Around, We Communicated – Continued.

Chapter 23 – Gate 55


October 7, 2024- Los Angeles: 7:40 a.m.:

BELLA

"How was your stay with us, Miss Swan?"

"Very good, thank you."

"We're glad to hear that and hope to see you again soon."

As I checked out of my hotel early the following morning, someone cleared their throat and lightly tapped my shoulder. Admittedly, I turned slowly and somewhat warily, wondering if Chef Mike had finally thought up a retort to all I'd said to him. Except, I doubted Michael Newton would give me the courtesy of clearing his throat and tapping me lightly before cursing me out in his shoddy accent. He'd be more likely to spit on my back and poke the hell out of me.

Therefore, I was relieved to find a much better prospect standing there: tall and lean-framed, in dark shades and dressed casually in jeans and a tee shirt, with wavy blond hair that was naturally highlighted by a life led under the Southern California sun. More than a handful of heads were already turned in his direction. And boy, TV cameras hadn't done him justice. He was almost as good-looking as Edward. Almost.

"Miss Isabella Swan?" he asked, obviously knowing what to look for but double-checking.

I nodded and exclaimed, "Chef Carlisle," the surprise evident in my tone.

He offered me a friendly smile tinged with a touch of apology. "Miss Swan, I'm so sorry to ambush you like this."

"No, not at all." I chuckled and, wanting to set him at ease, confessed, "Actually, I thought you might be someone else, who it would've really sucked to have to deal with again."

Chef Carlisle's broad shoulders shook with his ensuing laughter. "I have my suspicions about who you mean, but." He waved a hand in a manner that said, 'More along those lines is unnecessary.'

"I agree. It's great to meet you, though." I gestured toward him.

"It's an honor to meet you. I've heard quite a bit about you."

"About me?" I pointed at myself.

He nodded. "You've built a good name for yourself in the food styling industry, an industry that's closely interconnected to mine."

"Well, thank you for saying so," I grinned, "but the honor is truly all mine."

He shook his head and again waved it off, though this time, the gesture of 'more along those lines is unnecessary' held a touch of embarrassment to it.

"Miss Swan, we share a good friend."

"Yes, we do," I chuckled again, observing only inwardly that our mutual friend was the more likely venue through which Chef Carlisle knew anything about my existence. "Please call me Bella."

"Then please call me Carlisle."

"With pleasure."

"Bella, do you have a few minutes, or do you have to run to catch your flight?"

"No, I have time."

"Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?"

"Sure, Carlisle."

"There's a great place right across the street." He poked a thumb in the direction. "Do you need help with your luggage?"

"No, I've got it, but thank you."

"In that case, after you."

Eyes and cameras followed us the entire way to the café. We sat at a small high table for two. After perusing the menu on the wall, Carlisle took my order and went to place mine and his. He returned a few minutes later with two mugs, setting one before me and then sliding into his seat with the other. When he removed his shades, I noted blue eyes that were internet and TV famous. Yet, like Edward's, they were a color that could never be adequately described unless one saw them in person. They were the color of the Southern California sky.

"Thanks for the coffee, Carlisle." I offered him a grateful smile.

"No problem, Bella. Hope you enjoy it."

"I'm sure I will." I sipped my coffee and nodded. "Mm. This is good."

"I'm glad." He sipped his coffee and smiled. "This is good, but I guess you're wondering why I showed up here this morning?"

"Not that I'm not massively honored to be sitting at a café with the culinary GOAT and owner of C-BH, C-NY, C-London, C-Paris, etcetera," I smiled. "And I'm sure as hell you don't need to contract my expertise. You, Carlisle, like Edward, have mastered the trifecta in your art."

"Trifecta?" he wondered.

"Not merely brilliance in your art, but in its presentation and dissemination."

"Ahh," he nodded. "That trifecta. Yes, you're correct; Edward possesses the trifecta in his art."

"He does," I chuckled. "You both do, so I wasn't surprised when he told me you were good friends. Well, I should say I wasn't surprised after I got over my surprise."

He laughed. "He said you were funny."

I sipped my coffee and quirked a brow. "So he's mentioned me, huh?"

"Mmm," he pretended to hedge and consider that as he sipped his coffee. "Maybe once or five hundred times in the past few weeks."

Now I belly laughed, setting down my mug so it wouldn't spill over the rim.

"And a handful of times in the years before that."

"Ahh," I nodded more soberly.

"Though those mentions rarely elicited the over-the-moon tone these latest mentions have. Not that there was ever anything unfavorable in those mentions," he quickly clarified. "Just…" He performed that wave again, the 'More along those lines is unnecessary' one. I was beginning to associate it with Carlisle as much as I associated a perfectly prepared and presented pan-seared chicken cutlet with a white wine reduction, served over a four-cheese risotto, with him.

I took another sip of my coffee. "Edward told me you've been friends for a long time."

He took a sip, too. "He was there at the beginning of my career, not long after I opened C-BH when no one knew or cared about it or me," he chuckled.

"He told me he liked the privacy – and the food too, of course," I smiled.

Carlisle chuckled. "Let's hope."

I dropped my voice and leaned in. "And he told me about the whole debacle with Chef Mike."

Carlisle rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "A piece of work, that guy. But." He did the hand wave.

"I assume you were probably there when Edward broke his contract with Volturi and its aftermath."

"That was a bold move…and a brave one. But I think he made his peace with that a long time ago."

There was still a lot about that period Edward and I hadn't had a chance to delve into, not with much depth. The truth was that we'd been mainly focused on us over the past few weeks, which made sense in light of what we wanted to accomplish. Still, Edward had told me there were things…details about that entire fiasco he wanted to explain. But we hadn't gotten to that yet.

So, I remained silent.

"Edward's been a good buddy throughout a lot," Carlisle said.

A beat of silence transpired while we both finished our coffees. It wasn't uncomfortable silence, per se, but it was loaded. It was that 'Ahh' moment—the revelation you know is coming, but until that moment, its exact shape and form are unclear.

"And now you're returning the favor. Handsome, uber-talented, ex-rockstar reunites with the girl who obviously broke his heart? What's that all about, right?"

Carlisle offered me a lopsided grin. "I just wanted to meet you, Bella."

"Like I said, I knew it wasn't for my food styling skills." I returned the grin and held his gaze serenely. "I'll say this, Carlisle: I'm glad he's had good friends, especially since I know some snakes were mixed in there for a few years. He's…an amazing man beyond the artistic trifecta, and it's good to know he's had others like him in his corner." I drew in a deep breath and released it with a shrug. "And that's all I'll say."

He did the hand wave, and I chuckled. Then, after watching me silently for a few seconds, Carlisle reached into his back pocket and placed a small envelope between us on the table. It was sealed and taped shut but otherwise had no other markings. He slid it over to my side.

"I do have something I'd like to ask you to please give Edward for me when you see him next. He's been asking for it for years," he said, a teasing tone of exasperation in his voice. "But I've always told him I'd only ever share it under very specific circumstances."

"Which have come to pass?" I asked with a curious smile.

"I think so," he said in a light, speculative tone. Then, returning to the teasing tone, he added, "But please be very careful with it, and only release it into his hands."

I reached out and placed my fingers on the envelope, Carlisle's fingers still resting on the other end.

"Should I have him memorize it and burn it?"

He snorted. "He wasn't kidding about your sense of humor."

"I'll guard it with my life, friggin' stuff it in my mouth, and eat it if things go awry between here and Seattle," I whispered, slipping the envelope out from under his fingers. "But can I ask one more question?"

"Of course, Bella," he said through continuous, hearty chuckles.

"How much would Mike Newton pay me right now for what's in this envelope?"

"Oh, he'd likely trade his firstborn for it."

We shared a long bout of loud laughter. A quarter of an hour or so later, as Carlisle, the one-named culinary GOAT, helped me into an Uber, he and I were on our way to being good friends.

LAX - 8:410 a.m.:

I rolled my spinner carry-on through LAX Terminal 3's tiled walkways, headed to Gate 62 of the terminal, where the under-three-hour flight back to Seattle would soon taxi and from which it would take off in a couple of hours.

With surprisingly little traffic on the city's infamous freeways, I arrived early at the airport. Since there was no holiday traffic on the immediate horizon, the usually bustling hub was relatively quiet. I, therefore, grabbed another coffee at a café between Gates 15 and 16 and meandered from gate to gate, window shopping at the various airport storefronts on my way to Gate 62. When I grew bored, I hopped on the travelator, ensuring I stood on the right side and allowed those in more of a time crunch to dart past me on the left. I perused my messages and texts, smiling as I read the latest additions in the group chat between Quil, Embry, and me. After sharing the unvarnished truth about Chef Michel with them and Rose, I'd sworn them all to secrecy. However, a continuous texting stream loaded with jokes and puns at Chef's expense filled Quil and Embry's group chat.

Quil: Ooh, I thought of another one! Chef Michael Newton? More like Chef Michael Neuter'N!

Embry: Or Chef Michel Enn? More like Chef Me-shell-of-a-man!

I replied to their comments with three laughing face emojis and: U guys r nuts. Thx for making me smile even tho I'm in a bit of a shit mood this morning. I added a poop emoji at the end.

Quil texted back a pair of hearts. We try, sweetheart. We try. But y the shit mood?

The travelator ended at Gate 38 and resumed at Gate 40. Stepping back on, I pulled up the dark-haired, shrugging woman emoji and sent her off, then read the texts that quickly popped up in reply.

Embry: Could yur *poop emoji* mood have something to do w missing someone w initials EC who happens to be a *flames emoji* ex-rxstr BUT who's no longer The Ex?

Quil: Lol, Embry baby, u r not subtle at all!

I laughed aloud as I exited the travelator at Gate 45, then picked it back up at Gate 47. I debated walking on the brisker left-hand side but remained standing on the right. I was in no rush. In truth, I was lackluster and apathetic about heading home despite having been eager for the end of my contract with Chef Michel. Yet neither did I have any interest in remaining in La La Land. I felt…directionless, like a helium balloon released into the atmosphere without aim. Though I enjoyed meeting Carlisle, the envelope he'd given me for Edward left me feeling…melancholic. It would be days before I could hand it over to Edward. In the meantime, it would burn a hole in my pocketbook.

In this peculiar frame of mind, I typed,

Ngl, I miss-

I cut off with a yelp, failing to finish the text when, somewhere between Gates 51 and 52, a sharp pain shot through my foot. The sensation was what I imagined Mr. Achilles of Trojan lore must've felt when that infamous arrow pierced his heel. The pain definitely deserved an epic name, rushing with lightning speed from the tail end and up my limb, then radiating like wildfire. While I lingered in the throes of agony, someone behind me sucked their teeth.

"Ugh, can you move?"

The question was rhetorical, its asker on the move again without pausing for an answer. Either way, I was too bewildered by my pain and her gall to reply. In lieu of an apology for ramming my foot, she gave me a wide berth, then rolled her weapon – a hardcase spinner that looked made of superhero Kevlar – across the travelator, resuming a hot-footed stride.

"Jay-sus, I was walking on the right," I muttered.

Exiting the moving walkway, I removed my low-top sneakers to rub my aching Achilles. When the pain subsided enough for me to continue, I readjusted my shoe and gingerly set my foot back on the airport tiles. Then I looked up.

A few yards away, the impenitent traveler sat in one of the gate's waiting areas – Gate 55, to be exact. Although she was situated comfortably, with her luggage in front of her and her phone plugged into one of the provided charging outlets, her leg bounced impatiently. She scanned her cellphone, then glared up at the still-shut Gate door. Again, she sucked those teeth, glowering at the closed door as if tempted to pitch something at it – probably her killer luggage. My gaze panned to the electronic information board in front of her gate.

Gate 55

American Airlines Flight 289

Departing to New York (JFK) at 9:30 a.m. PST

Arrival: 6:30 p.m. EST

On Time.

Boarding in 28 minutes.

With an indignant huff, I backed out of the text I'd started before my foot was attacked and sent a wholly different one:

Guys, some woman rammed me with her luggage, no apology, and wasn't even running late for her flight!

The wench! *angry-red-faced-emoji*

Did you curse her out?! *angry-red-faced-with-blipped-out-curses-across-its-mouth-emoji*

I was too consumed with agony. But I see her. She's waiting for a NY flight. *smoke-coming-out-of-its-nostrils-face-emoji*

Ahh, figures. We NY'ers have a rep for a reason, lol.

Go tell her off, sweetie! But beware: born n bred NY'ers r snappy with the comebacks. U gotta be ready.

Ooh, Idk then. I'm not that quick with the one for one insult trades. I'm much better at banter.

'Course u r! Who told Chef Mike to stick his phony accent and his dickhead persona where the sun don't shine? *peach emoji* God, I still can't with that! *a series of laughing emojis*

That's different. He's from Boise. *potato emoji* Idk if beating him in a verbal sparring match *boxer emoji* qualifies me for the big leagues.

'Bella, honey, keep the chat open & lmk if u need help. Born n bred Brooklynite here. My mouth is registered as a lethal weapon.

Oh, I can vouch for my hubby's mouth. *winking-face emoji*

Omg Quil, that's not what I meant, baby! Although that's true, too. *smirking-face emoji*

U 2, not now! *eye-roll emoji*

Lmao! Srsly, my hubby may look sweet, but that mouth will annihilate. Go get her!

All right, guys, but blame urselves if I'm on the news later. Here I go!

With a resolute breath, I grabbed my carry-on and rolled it forward, limping toward the callous traveler. By the time I finished with her, a shut gate door would be the least of-

I stopped short.

This time, it was not because someone rammed into me. What hit me so hard it stilled my feet was the just-now-sinking-in realization of where exactly the people at Gate 55 were headed and the fact that they'd be landing there that very evening. By tonight, they'd be in New York with their loved ones – unless they had a connecting flight to somewhere else, in which case, their day would end much later. But regardless – the pertinent fact remained:

Most of these passengers would be reunited with those they loved in a few hours, not in a few days…or in close to a week.

Guys, nvm the uncontrite NY'er & what would've likely ended in a closed-room meeting w TSA officials. I've got a NYC flight to catch!

OMG YES! Time much better spent! *clapping hands emoji*

Agreed! Tho betw the 3 of us, we would've verbally pulverized her. Safe flight, sweetie! *heart emoji*

Yeah, safe flight, honey! Text us when you land! *heart emoji*

Will do! *heart emoji*

Pocketing my phone and wearing a broad grin despite the still throbbing heel, I pulled my spinner and hobbled to Gate 55's customer service desk, ignoring the conscienceless New York-bound woman – who didn't even glance my way, anyway.

I may have spared myself a spot on the news and a lesson in the Transportation Safety Board's rules against airport brawling. Still, that morning, I learned a lot about spur-of-the-moment decisions to hop a flight to one city when you're booked on a flight to another. Such an impromptu decision isn't quite as simple as rom-coms suggest. Apparently, you can't just rush to your chosen gate's customer service desk, excitedly slam down your airline points credit card, and request a spot on the next flight out.

In reality, and as per TSA regulations, I had to first exit the airport terminal, as I'd chosen to forfeit my booked flight and was thereby no longer an official passenger, and therefore trespassing. Once outside the terminal, I booked the earliest flight I could now make to New York City. Then I returned to the terminal with my new boarding pass, re-queued through security, and took the long, limping sprint down the gates again – this time on the left side of the travelator all the way down. Bypassing meanderers sipping their coffees while scanning their phones, I kind of understood the woman who almost dismembered me.

"I get it, bitch," I muttered to myself, arriving at my gate and glaring impatiently at the still-shut gate door. "I get it."

Edward texted me early into the NYC-bound flight, when I should have landed in Seattle.

Landed safely, love?

Uhh… Yeah.

Home yet?

I squirmed in my middle seat – the only seat option available when you purchase your flight forty-eight minutes before take-off. Lies and omissions had once caused so much heartache, distrust, and, ultimately, loss between Edward and me. But this was different.

This was a surprise!

Still, I bit my lip as I texted:

Text you in a bit, okay? In the middle of something.

Technically, it was true; I was in the middle of something – in the middle of Row 23.

Everything okay? he texted back. I could almost see his brow furrowing and feel his growing tension.

Yes. Call you later. Love you.

Okay. Love you.

A rich autumn sunset hovered over the sleek Manhattan skyline as the plane crossed over the island to touch down in Queens, New York's JFK Airport. Coppery rays reflected sharply on the river's gilded surface as my Uber weaved in and out of the slithering Belt Parkway's evening traffic and zipped onto the steely Verrazzano Bridge leading into Staten Island. I checked in with Rose, Charlie, Quil and Embry, all who'd been made aware of my revised plans, alerting them I'd arrived safely. I thought of Edward and how anxious he probably was at that moment. Sighing, I rubbed my chest and tried to quell the flutters of guilt rattling under my ribcage.

By the time I exited the Uber, the sun had set entirely, its bright rays disappearing behind the tall skyscrapers visible across the glistening dark water, the last of their light doming the landscape in a crimson glow. The Uber circled the quiet cul-de-sac, agitating a flurry of brittle leaves as it sped away. With my carry-on resting beside me, I lifted my gaze, gnawing on the inside of my cheek while an early October East Coast breeze nipped at my skin and made me shiver beneath my hoodie.

Despite the long day, up until that moment, I'd felt exhilarated, like someone hyped up on the natural caffeine that was anticipation. Seven or so hours and a different time zone earlier, this seemed an excellent idea - the best idea of my life. But as I peered up at the house, quiet and settled in for its nightly routine – which didn't include my unexpected arrival – my excitement threatened to ooze and scamper, along with the brittle leaves frolicking at my feet.

How many times over the past couple of weeks had Edward and I metaphorically patted ourselves on our backs about how well we were doing in the communications department? We'd managed to rehash our past while agreeing that neither of us wanted it to overpower our present. We'd begun the discovery process of revealing to one another who we were nowadays and were happily uncovering that these older versions of our personalities meshed wonderfully and had commonalities and differences that complemented and supplemented the other. We shared a mutual resentment for responsibilities that kept us apart right when we'd found each other again but concurrently acknowledged that these responsibilities were valid and that meeting them didn't mean we weren't committed to making us work. We'd both verbally expressed our love for one another, a love that lasted despite the years, events, and relationships in between. Hell, we'd even had video sex, an adult expression of our love-lust for one another.

Even as I stood rooted to my spot on Edward's sidewalk, jetlagged, weary, and wary, remembering that video call sent a jolt through me. It had been…undeniably erotic, something novel for us, simultaneously titillating with its deprivation of actual touch. I broke out in a flush of prickly heat that made me feel clammy when met with the cool night air.

Some might've said that Edward and I were ahead of the curve with this communication and becoming reacquainted with business. Yet, that same lack of touch that made our video call so stimulatingly arousing left me wanting.

'Touch yourself and pretend it's me touching you…'

'Like this?'

'Yeah. Yeah, just like that. Does that feel good, Izzy?'

'Yes…yes, but not as good as if it were really you…'

'Jesus, Iz, you're gonna make me explode. Look at how you've got me…'

'Oh, God, Edward…'

I wouldn't lie to myself or Edward regarding the truth that, although my ache, my physical need for him wasn't the only reason I impulsively hopped on a flight to New York City rather than on my scheduled one back home to Seattle, it sure as hell wasn't an insignificant one. What's more, not only had I lied to him earlier, but here I was springing this…springing myself on Edward when the last couple of weeks, despite our separation, had been all about communication. Yet, there had been zero communication and no agreement between us about this.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I whispered reprovingly to myself. "What are you doing, Bella?"

Reopening my eyes, I tried to shake these doubts out of my head. Before I could make any confessions, I had to first make my way to Edward's door. I gathered my courage, rustling leaves skipping in a concentric circle around me like cheerleaders. Their feathery tapping blended with a melody of neighborhood sounds: the evening cicadas, the Staten Island Ferry's horn in the distance signaling either an arrival onto or a departure off the island, and a dog's insistent bark.

It wasn't my first visit to Edward's home. I'd visited it when I was in New York a couple of weeks earlier. It was a beautifully restored, three-story ivory Victorian with ebony shutters and a matching front door. I'd admired the house, large yet comfortable. The neighborhood was surprisingly cozy in the middle of a bustling city. Edward's memory had been accurate a few days ago – as I'd come to note his memories regarding us tended to be – when he recalled that I'd never been allowed to own a pet due to my mom's allergies. Once I became an adult living alone, I'd meant to adopt a pet, but it never happened for one reason or another. When I met Zeus, it was pretty much love at first sight.

The house was perched on a small hill, one of a series that cut through the geography of this part of New York City's fifth borough. As a result, many of the homes in the area had steps built into the hills themselves, leading to the large houses in the historic St. George neighborhood. While the hills could be steep, Edward's steps, like many others around here, were built at a gradual gradient that simplified the slope. These meandered around a front garden dotted with native plants. As I climbed up on feet that felt like dual slabs of lead, I alternated between talking myself into every consecutive step and quietly cursing myself.

"Almost there, you gate-crashing dope. Just a few more steps, and you can make a complete ass out of yourself."

With every step, my lungs tightened further. Every breath erupted from me in short spurts. It was as if I were ascending Mount Everest and struggling to inhale its thin air rather than cresting a simplified suburban slope. I stared warily at the approaching front door, my heart hammering as I dragged my clunking carry-on over every step. All the while, I kept up the self-castigation.

"The presumptuousness. The utter gall. What's he going to think – that I think I can just hop on a plane and waltz over to see him as I please now? I'm no better than Mike Newton with the arrogance – well, maybe a little better, but not much."

The front door suddenly swung open. It was yanked in a manner that was neither measured nor controlled. It wasn't pulled open with the deliberation that comes from planning to open a door—say, to leave for work, to walk the dog, for an evening stroll, etcetera.

I froze mid-step, then gasped when a figure emerged into the chilly dusk. He wore black sweatpants but neither shirt, socks, or shoes. As he raked a hand through his hair, fisting it at his crown, damp strands caught the porch lights and glinted like a copper penny. His rounded, awestruck eyes found me instantly, as if he'd known, even before yanking the door open, where to look, exactly where on his property I'd be. Although he'd rushed out, he paused at the top step, and his mouth moved soundlessly. I read his lips.

"Izzy."

Bare feet pounded so fast down the concrete steps that I barely managed the next breath before Edward swept my feet off the ground. He drew me into his arms and against his warm, bare chest.

"I'm-"

Stupidly, the next word I meant to speak was 'sorry.' But Edward crushed his mouth to mine, silencing not only the word but the very idea of apologizing. My bags thumped the concrete as I released them and slid my arms around Edward's broad shoulders, threading my hands around his nape and tugging his soft hair. Our mouths locked in a frenzy of lips and tongues, and I gave myself over to the familiar taste of mint comingled with hunger and joy.

Zeus barked at our side.

We pulled apart and shared joyful chuckles, though Edward's mouth refused to break contact with my skin. His lips brushed my eyes, my nose, my cheeks, and my forehead before trailing back to my mouth.

"Last night, I saw you here, just like this."

"Edward." Emotion choked off my ability to say more.

"When I woke up this morning and realized I'd been dreaming, I glared at the ceiling for about a quarter of an hour, pissed off at the world." He laughed despite his words.

"I'm sorry if I made things worse and worried you with my vague text this afternoon."

He grinned, and I made out the flush in his cheeks in the low light. "Iz, by the time of that text exchange, I'd already called the airline and switched next week's flight to tonight's red-eye."

"What?!" I shouted and simultaneously laughed. The comingled sound reverberated around the cul-de-sac. Zeus barked, wagging his tail.

Edward shrugged. "I've spent the day getting everything ready – packing, on the phone with Tyler and the other guys, leaving instructions for TLC and the next few acts, and arranging things with the neighbor who watches Zeus. I just jumped out of the shower and was getting dressed before calling an Uber. I had a vague notion when Zeus started barking, like a vision of last night's dream. Of course, I knew it couldn't be." Again, he laughed. "Still, I stole a quick peek through the blinds, feeling ridiculous the whole time and expecting to see a squirrel, a pigeon, or a random individual strolling by without Zeus's permission. Instead…" He paused and drew in a series of shaky breaths, gazing at me in open wonder, undisguised fascination, as if he were gazing at some form of deity. "Instead, there you were, my dream come true and heralded by the last of the evening's light." He rested his forehead against mine, labored breaths washing against my skin. "And still, I thought I was imagining you, even as I rushed downstairs and yanked the door open. Even as I ran down these concrete steps. But you're real," he said, his tone that of someone still trying to convince themselves. "You're really real."

"I'm real, and thank God for your reaction because I wasn't sure you'd be happy with my surprise."

Edward pulled back and shook his head. Transferring my weight to one arm, he slipped a hand around my nape and gave me a gentle, reproving shake.

"I'd upbraid you for entertaining any doubt if it wasn't for the fact that as the sun began to set tonight, I began panicking about what the fuck I was doing," he confessed. "I worried about how you'd react to my showing up on your doorstep a few days before I was due."

"Edward!" I threw back my head, laughing heartily. The twilight sky above twinkled back at me. But I much preferred the twinkle in Edward's eyes. "I would've reacted just like you just did." Sighing, I tangled myself around his frame and rested my head on his shoulder. "Ecstatically."

"I am ecstatic," he whispered, his nose grazing my cheek. "These weeks…I've never been happier in my life."

"Me, too."

"And now you're here, and…God, Iz, I have no words."

For a moment, we reveled quietly in the mere fact that we were once again, so freely and openly, in one another's warm embrace.

Edward sighed. "Welcome home, baby."

It crystallized palpably, like a slight, dense fog lifting on an otherwise clear, starry night:

Earlier, on my way to Gate 62 and Seattle, I felt displaced, disoriented, and directionless. Because in a matter of weeks, Seattle itself had stopped being my home. Edward's arms were my home now.

Swallowing past the sweetest lump in my throat and the best tears I'd ever felt sting my eyes, I smiled against Edward's shoulder and clung to him as I acknowledged this bit of simple though life-altering truth:

"Thank you."


A/N: Thoughts?

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