Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm now apparently making them ice skate.

Anyagal is kindly prereading for me. Thank you, lovely lady!

Everything & After

"I kneed him in the balls."

Sprawled out at the opposite end of my sofa, Edward looks over. As he registers my admission, some of the harshness bleeds out of his features. His lips twitch ever-so-slightly, like he's trying to decide if it's okay to laugh. He stares at me for a minute–weighing, assessing, who knows what–before dipping his chin in a single, succinct nod.

"Good," he says, nodding again, this time maybe to himself. "Motherfucker deserved it."

I flinch at the unexpected anger.

"Yeah, he did." Despite my own lingering fury, fatigue weighs down my limbs, and my head falls back, sinking into the oversized cushion. Cheeks puffed out, I gaze up at the ceiling, following the concentric swirls of white plaster. "It's not good, though."

Edward kicks an ankle over the opposite knee and slings an arm over the back of the sofa in a casual, easy-going pose. I don't believe it for a second. Not when cords of muscle ripple beneath his ink. Not when his knuckles thrum against the armrest. "What do you mean by that?"

"I hesitated," I tell him, and there's no use trying to disguise the bitterness in my voice. "I froze. It was like my brain wouldn't accept what was going on. I should have…" My teeth clamp down on the inside of my cheek, slicing into flesh, although I barely feel it. "I don't know… I should have punched him harder or run away sooner." My head bangs against the cushion. "Ugh! I'm so stupid."

"You're not stupid." The way he says it–instantly, firmly, without even a hint of reservation–strikes a chord deep inside. I could kiss him for it, too, then a second time when his voice softens. "Far from it."

"Maybe not, but it sure feels that way."

"You've known him for what?" Edward's mouth flattens, and a hand rakes through unruly hair. "Years, right?"

"A decade… at least," I say as I swivel around to face him. The heater kicks on, and even though the air blowing out of the vent is warm, it feels cold. My skin pebbles, and I draw my knees up to my chest, tucking them underneath my oversized hoodie. "Ever since mom and I moved to Colorado. His family's originally from here."

Edward stares out the window, speaking to the dark. "No one wants to think that friends and the people we know are capable of that kind of shit. We automatically shy away from it, even when the evidence is right in front of us."

My head cocks to the side, and a smile threatens my lips. "I didn't know you were a psychologist, too."

"By this point, I might as well be."

It's a quiet, cryptic statement, muttered under his breath, completely at odds with the momentary flash of pearly teeth that quickly follows. When my forehead crumples, he doesn't elaborate, but something shifts in his expression. Shadows lurk in his forest eyes.

"I guess," I say, letting him have his secrets. I shrug, and a dull ache spreads through my shoulders and upper body, arrowing in on the phantom handprints left behind on my arm and nape. "Tyler's always been a jerk, but I didn't realize how much Jake being around kept him in check. I had no clue things would escalate, that he'd be like… that." I frown down at my hands resting in my lap. Pale blue-green veins spiderweb beneath my skin. My knuckles gleam white. "I thought I was handling him."

"You know it's not your fault, right?"

I peek over and nod. "Still…"

"It's not your fault, Bella. You did absolutely nothing wrong. This is all him." Edward's eyes move to my arm, like he can somehow see past the fabric. "Let me get you some ice."

I shake my head. "It's fine."

He pauses mid-stand, scans my face, and then sits back down. "Okay."

"No, wait." Scrubbing my cheeks, I shove wild strands of hair out of my eyes. I probably look like a mess. "Fuck. Yes, I do want some ice." When one brow lifts, a long sigh escapes my chest. "I really don't like being a burden." His brow climbs higher, and this time, I huff. "Fine… other than Eric, I'm not used to the guys I know actually listening to me."

"You mean respecting you."

I huff again, and my nose crinkles. "Okay, that, too."

Edward doesn't answer. Instead, he shoves off the couch and quietly skirts the granite breakfast bar separating the kitchen and the living room before slipping inside the pantry. A moment later, he emerges, and the ice maker rattles. It's jarring, loud in the silence of the room.

"I understand," he says as he resumes his spot at the end of the sofa. "Better than you might think."

He stretches over to hand me a makeshift ice pack, wrapped in one of my old dish towels, and I abruptly realize just how careful he's being with me.

But I don't need careful, at least not from him.

"You're fine," I murmur, waving at the empty cushion between us as my chest floods with gratitude and some other unnamable emotion. "You're not freaking me out. Kind of the opposite actually."

Edward hesitates, then scoots closer when I roll up my sleeve to reveal the faint gray bruises circling my forearm. Compared to some of the lumps I've taken over the years, honestly, this is nothing, but Edward takes my hand in his like I'm made of glass and gently places the ice pack against my skin. When I wince, his jaw braces.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing."

It's not nothing.

Before I can push him on it, my stomach growls. Edward coughs out a laugh, even as he continues to stare down at my arm and tend to my bruises.

"What?" I ask, too tired to feign offense or be embarrassed. "I'm starving. I haven't eaten since lunch." I glance at the LED clock gleaming on my stove. "It's late, I know… but do you want some food?"

"Sure. I can always eat." Edward's eyes find mine. "Only if you want to."

"Will you tell Katya if I order a pizza?"

"Never." A mischievous, heart-stopping grin splits his face. "As long as we get bread sticks, too."

As he speaks, a faint hint of peppermint washes over me, and I finally notice just how close we are. Somewhere along the way, my bare, freezing toes found their way beneath his thigh to steal his warmth. Edward's forearm rests against my knees, and as he holds the ice against my arm, his thumb rubs tiny, soothing circles along the inside of my wrist. I feel every single point where his body touches mine, and I don't have to think to know it's one-hundred-and-eighty degrees from Ty's unwanted aggression.

"Cheese sticks," I say, swallowing.

"Deal."

Thirty minutes later, my eyes roll back, and I let out a moan. "Oh, my God."

Glancing up from his plate, Edward chucks me the roll of paper towels and laughs at the long line of cheese stringing from my mouth to the gigantic slice of heaven in my hand. "How long has it been?"

"Forever," I say, moaning again, never mind that I've probably seared the roof of my mouth. It'll heal. This is worth it. "A year. At least. Maybe two."

"Shit." He bites off half a cheese stick. "You're definitely more disciplined than me."

"Guilt," I mumble, wiping my face before he thinks I'm a complete slob. "I have an almost pathological sense of inner guilt. I should be Catholic."

"That right?" Chuckling, Edward grabs a bottle of sparkling water off the coffee table and twists the metal cap before handing it over. "Garrett would absolutely love you."

"Thanks." I drain a third of the bottle in a single gulp. It's cold enough that it burns going down, but I take another drink, then another until there's nothing left. Edward doesn't say a word. He just watches me and then asks if I want a second bottle. I shake my head. "No, I just didn't realize how thirsty I was."

"You sure?" he asks, and again, there's a certain carefulness to his question.

"No, I'm okay. I swear." Giving him a small smile, I place my plate on the table and tuck one ankle under the opposite leg. "Can I ask you something?"

He moves woodenly, deliberately, copying me by sliding his empty plate onto the nearby end table. When he leans back, he looks at me with a blank expression, like he already knows what I'm going to ask. "Yeah, go ahead."

"What happened with you and Tanya?"

Edward lets out a quiet exhale, then massages the bridge of his nose.

"Never mind," I say as my heart rate ticks up in time. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my bus–"

"It's fine. It's not a secret or anything." His wide shoulders rise and fall in a melancholy shrug. "It just feels weird talking about someone who's not here."

"I didn't mean to–"

"I know." Edward smiles, but it's not a happy one, and his gaze falls to his lap. "Tanya was–no, is–an exceptional skater. Really. She's right up there with you."

When he glances over, warmth climbs my neck and cheeks.

"Talented, driven, kind, fun to be around…" Hesitating, Edward chews his bottom lip. "But unlike you, she's… fragile. I know some probably wouldn't like me saying that, but I don't really have a better word for it."

I want to ask him what he means by that "unlike you" because right now, I certainly feel fragile. I don't, however, not when he goes quiet and when his thumb flicks across the calligraphed letters on the back of his hand in what I can only assume is agitation.

"She used to have serious body image issues." He scowls at something I can't see. "If I missed a lift, she'd blame herself and damn near starve herself for two days."

I recoil, even though I'm not surprised, especially knowing how much pressure some of the Russian schools put on their skaters.

There's a good reason why people hate Eteri.

"Severe anxiety, undertreated depression, probably bipolar." It's a stark assessment, delivered in a tone I can't quite recognize. It's neither anger, nor sadness, nor fatigue, but maybe some blend of it all.

"Don't get me wrong," he says, "it wasn't her fault." When I nod, he takes a drink of his water and goes on. "She was fine when things were going well–when we were winning. But when we weren't…" A soft chuff of a laugh spills out. "I never knew which Tanya would show up to practice.

"It was like walking on eggshells, constantly." A muscle ticks in his cheek. "It felt like I had to carry everything because she just… couldn't. On top of training, performing, trying to go to school, and everything else, it was like her mental health was my responsibility, too. It was exhausting, and it got worse every year until I just… had enough and needed a break."

"I'm sorry."

And I am, too. After all, I do know something about partners and unrealistic expectations, and now, his shift to singles makes all the sense in the world.

"Don't be." Edward shrugs again, and this time, the movement drags his t-shirt up, revealing a sliver of skin. "There's nothing for you to be sorry about."

"I'm still sorry you had to go through that."

An hour and three slices of pepperoni and cheese perfection later, Edward's watch pings. He studies his wrist before reluctantly leaning forward.

"I probably need to go," he says, grabbing my plate as he starts to stand.

My mouth runs off before I can stop it. "You can stay if you want…"

His eyes widen, then shoot to the couch.

"You can stay in the guest room," I say, shaking my head as I steal my plate as well as his and head to the kitchen to hide my flaming cheeks.

Following me over, Edward props his elbows on the bar and watches me shove everything into the trash. "You have a two-bedroom?" He peers down the darkened hall to the left. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, Jake and I signed a year lease." Yawning, I dump what's left of my ice pack into the sink. I ignore the darkening fingerprints. "After he left, Ang almost moved in, but then her mom got sick, and she wanted to stay at home to help her, which was 1000% the right decision. So… I'm stuck here, at least for a while. But it's convenient and close to the arena."

Edward glances around the apartment, taking in my Ikea furniture, the drapes, and the matching gray and blue Target rug in the center of the living room. When he turns back, his eyes roam my face, questioning. "Are you sure? I can get an Uber back, no problem."

"No, it's…" I peer over his shoulder at my stove. "It's stupid late. I know you have a change of clothes in your bag. We can just ride in together in the morning."

"Okay, as long as you're sure."

I make the mistake of not knocking when I bring in a fresh set of sheets.

Standing in the middle of my never-used guest room, palming the back of his neck, Edward is shirtless and barefoot, down to a pair of dark gray gym shorts. My eyes automatically dip, tracing the chiseled ridges and valleys of his chest and abdomen. Like his arms and shins, crisp lines of colorful ink draw intricate, gothic images over his ribs and pectorals.

He looks like a work of art.

I know I should look away, but I can't, and my stomach flutters. "Why?"

"Why what?"

Setting the linens on the bed, I wave a haphazard hand at his general person. "Why all the artwork?"

His irises shine with playful amusement. "Carlisle hates tattoos."

I do a doubletake. "Wait, you did all this…" Incredulous, I wave at him again. "Just to piss off your uncle?"

Edward laughs, and the sound of it–deep and warm–makes my chest constrict. "Not all of them. Just the first couple. Then I realized I like them."

"I like them, too…" It just comes out, and I lick my lips, trying and failing to hide my blush. "On you, that is."

Edward's features soften. One hand reaches toward me, then he pulls it back and drops it by his side. "Yeah?"

I nod, a little too quickly as the constriction in my chest slowly morphs, welling and expanding against my ribcage until I can barely breathe. Salt pricks my eyes. "Thank you… For tonight, I mean. For taking me home and staying with me."

Edward goes motionless, and he looks at me for a long, quiet moment. "Do you want to report him?"

"I don't know." The words punch out in a shaky whisper, and my fingers curl around the fabric of my hoodie, forming tight little hammers. "Maybe. It's just…" I suck in a deep, resigned breath. "You know how it is."

He frowns, and his forehead creases. "How what is?"

"The asshole wasn't wrong." I laugh a bitter, humorless laugh. "I'm sure you've heard the rumors. I've already had one partner disappear on me. You know as well as I do that the second SafeSport gets involved my chances of finding another partner will go to zero. No one–no one –is going to want to take the risk, whether it's my fault or not. Not in this discipline anyway."

When he doesn't reply, I ask, "Am I wrong?"

"I want to say yes, you are, but honestly… honestly, I don't know." Posture slumping, Edward dry-washes his face. "What if you told Katya?"

"She'd probably murder him…" I snort, imagining my tiny devil of a coach chasing Ty through the halls of the arena, screaming obscenities at the top of her lungs. "Maybe with his own skate."

Unlike me, Edward doesn't laugh. "It's your call. Whatever you decide to do."

"I know I should. I just… I'll think about it. I promise."

With another one of those short, succinct nods of his, Edward reaches for my hand and threads his fingers between mine. When I don't object, he draws me closer, slowly, giving me all the time in the world to pull away.

I don't.

Instead, with another quiet thank you–for before, for now, for everything–I slip my arms around his waist and let him hold me. His lips brush my forehead, then my hair, and my whole body relaxes. Like it knows this is exactly where I should be.

I look up, Edward looks down, and as we stare at each other, never in my life have I wanted someone to kiss me as much as I do right now.

He doesn't, which is probably wise.

He just wraps me tighter in his furnace-like embrace until I can't tell where he begins and I end.

.

.

.

Notes:

Just as a heads-up, I will be heading overseas on business again, so I likely won't be able to post for the next couple of weeks.

Thank you all for reading and for all your comments! I truly, truly love reading them and seeing your reactions.

Eteri refers to Eteri Tutberidze, a Georgian-Russian figure skating coach who has coached several past and current top women's singles skaters, including Anna Shcherbakova, Alexandra Trusova, and Kamila Valieva. Her methods, including dehydration, starvation, and berating her athletes, are controversial, and many consider her to be abusive.

The United States Center for SafeSport is an organization set up to reduce sexual misconduct and abuse of minors and athletes in Olympic sports in the US. It handles athlete investigations and issues suspensions and bans.

Figure skating, unfortunately, has its share of issues, especially in pairs and ice dancing. That's in part due to the close and romantic nature of the interactions, which can lead to genuine misunderstandings. But it's more due to the inherent power differential between female and male skaters, where the latter are often older, stronger, and in high demand. Because male skaters are few relative to female skaters, they often have their pick of partners. As a result, misconduct often goes unreported.