Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer
#
#
Where the Lines Overlap
Final Season - We are Broken
(We're all so) Fake happy
When I stepped inside the apartment, the quiet greeted me first, broken only by the low murmur of the TV. Edward was on the couch, stretched out with one arm draped over the backrest, his eyes fixed on the screen. The flickering light cast soft shadows across his face, accentuating how tired he looked.
I hesitated, lingering near the door longer than I should have. Everything that had happened with Mark still weighed on me—not just the hugs but the way they'd stretched into more. How we'd pulled apart only to fall back into each other's arms, like letting go wasn't an option. And it wasn't just the physical closeness; it was the way we'd connected, how he'd looked at me, how I'd looked at him, and our acknowledgment of our feelings for each other, of the bond we promised to keep. But none of it compared to the pull I felt now.
Standing there, seeing Edward, it struck me all over again—sharper than ever—that it really had always been him.
The soft click of the door closing seemed louder in the silence, and Edward glanced up. His lips curved into a faint smile, but something about it felt off—subtle, sad.
"You're back," he said, his voice warm, though the weight behind it felt heavy.
I nodded, feeling like my limbs were moving through water as I walked toward him. When I was close, he extended his hand toward me, and I took it without thinking, his touch grounding me.
"How was your walk?" I asked, aiming for casual, though the slight wavering in my voice betrayed me.
Edward's eyes flickered—just for a second—and he paused before answering.
"It was fine." His reply was quick, but the hesitation hovered, settling uneasily in my chest. "And you?" he asked, shifting slightly to make space for me on the couch. "Where were you?"
"With Mark," I said deliberately, though my voice faltered just enough to betray me.
Edward nodded, his expression unchanged, calm.
"That's good, how's he doing?" he asked simply, evenly.
But that ease only made the guilt hit harder. He didn't know—of course, he didn't know. I'd been with Mark—hugging him, yes, but also feeling the undeniable urge to kiss him, to be with him in ways I shouldn't. We were in love, no matter how we'd promised to stay just friends. That connection we'd admitted to, the bond we couldn't ignore, felt like a secret I couldn't share, especially not with Edward. And yet, sitting here beside him, knowing he didn't suspect a thing, only made it worse.
"He's okay," I replied cautiously, my eyes searching his face for any flicker of reaction.
But Edward just nodded, calm as ever.
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
"Last night was hard without you."
Was I trying to justify something he didn't even know had happened? My mind and heart were such a mess, I wasn't sure of anything anymore.
Edward's face softened, his brow knitting as he looked at me.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I was just... exhausted."
"I needed you," I admitted, the vulnerability in my tone cutting through the quiet. "I still do."
Edward's hand tightened around mine, a flicker of something—uncertainty, maybe—crossing his face before he spoke.
"I know, but I'm struggling too, Jazz," he said softly, his voice carrying a weight that matched the sadness in his smile. "With everything that happened back home, it's been hard to process... it's not easy."
His words hit me like a punch to the chest, not because I hadn't felt the same way but because hearing him say it made it real in a way I hadn't fully acknowledged.
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat growing.
"I get it," I whispered. "But we said we'd get past it together. That's what we do, Edward. We get through things—together."
His expression shifted, his eyes meeting mine for a long moment. He nodded—the movement small, almost reluctant—as if something unspoken held him. I searched his face, desperate to understand, but all I found was that same distance—the same wall that had been there since Olympia.
"Edward, please…" My voice broke, and I hated how needy I sounded, how exposed I felt. But I couldn't stop myself. "I need you."
He looked at me then, really looked, his gaze searching mine as if trying to find something. Whatever he saw made his expression shift, his lips parting as he exhaled softly.
"I'm here," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
But it wasn't enough. The words felt hollow, the ache in my chest deepened, an emptiness that had only grown since Thanksgiving. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, and before I could stop myself, I let them fall.
His brows knit, and he shifted closer, cupping my face with one hand. The tenderness of the gesture only made my tears spill faster.
"I feel like I'm losing you," I admitted, my voice trembling. "And I don't know how to stop it. Please, E. I need you to be here—with me."
For a heartbeat, he paused, his eyes locking onto mine, something primal flashing behind them. Then he moved. His hand slid from my cheek, trailing with deliberate pressure down my arm until his fingers wrapped tightly around my wrist. In one sharp motion, he pulled me forward, his lips crashing into mine with a hunger that bordered on feral.
His kiss was bruising, ravenous, his teeth grazing my lower lip before he bit down lightly, drawing a gasp from me. There was nothing gentle in the way his hands gripped my hips, pulling me closer until I was straddling him, his body hard and unyielding beneath me.
I matched his urgency, my fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer as if trying to fuse us together.
We didn't make it far—no time, no need. The couch became our world. His hands roamed over me roughly, his touch burning as he yanked my shirt up. His fingers scraped over my sides as he stripped it off, the movement hungry, frantic. His mouth was on me instantly—his teeth dragging over my collarbone before his tongue soothed the sting, sending shivers down my spine.
I fumbled with his shirt, hands desperate, the need to feel his skin, to close the gap between us, consuming me. When I finally managed to pull it over his head, my palms slammed against his chest, feeling the heat of him, the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath my fingers.
His mouth was everywhere—on my neck, my chest, teeth grazing and biting as if he wanted to claim every inch of me. His hands gripped my waist hard enough to bruise as he shifted us, his movements urgent.
My back hit the cushions, and he was on top of me, his body pinning me down, his hands working the waistband of my pants. The fabric and my underwear were gone in an instant, his hands rough against my thighs as he spread me open, lips trailing fire down my stomach. I arched into him, a desperate moan tearing from my throat as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of my hip
He shifted lower, his breath hot against my skin before his fingers wrapped around my girth and his mouth found me. The heat of him was sudden, overwhelming, the rough pull of his lips along my length sending a rush through me. His hands gripped my thighs with bruising force, holding me in place as he took me deeper, relentlessly. It wasn't careful; it was driven, desperate—like he was consuming me.
A strangled cry escaped me, fingers tangling in his hair as he pushed me higher. Every flick of his tongue, every drag of his teeth stoked the fire inside me until I was trembling, on the edge of breaking.
His pace faltered, a low groan rumbling in his throat as he pulled back, his breath ghosting over my skin. He kissed his way back up, each touch of his lips a sharp contrast to the bruising grip of his hands on my hips. His body hovered over mine, heat radiating from him, chest pressing against mine when he finally settled.
There was love in the way he held me, but it was buried beneath layers of need and lust so raw it felt like we were both breaking apart.
Suddenly, he paused, forehead pressing to mine, his breath coming in harsh pants.
"Do you want this?" His voice was a low, rough whisper.
"Yes," I gasped, the word tearing from me before he could finish asking. "I need you."
His eyes burned into mine for a long moment before he moved. His sweatpants hit the floor, and he grabbed the lube and a condom from the drawer on the coffee table. My breath hitched at the sight of them, the realization catching me off guard. I hadn't expected that—that Edward had somehow anticipated we might have sex there, in the living room—but the thought was quickly swallowed by the urgency in his movements. My heart pounded as he returned, hands steady but his expression wild with hunger.
He coated his fingers, his touch firm but careful as he prepared me. The stretch burned at first, but the discomfort quickly melted into something deeper, something that made me pant and push into him. His other hand jerked me off torturously slow, each movement drawing soft moans and gasps from me.
As he slid the condom on and positioned himself, I gripped his shoulders, pulling him down for a kiss. It was messy, desperate, and perfect.
When he finally pushed into me, it hit like a shockwave—raw, electric, a pulse that stole my breath, my nails clawing at his back. He didn't hold back, his thrusts hard and relentless, his hands gripping my thighs to hold me steady. Each drive into me claimed a piece of my mind, making it impossible to think, to breathe, to do anything but feel.
At some point, his grip tightened on my hips, and he broke the kiss with a heaved sigh.
"Ride me," he demanded in a grave tone.
Without another word, I pushed him back and straddled him, sinking slowly onto him, the stretch of him filling me, taking my breath away. He groaned, his hands steady on my waist, but there was an urgency in his touch as I began to move—rising and falling on him, my body slick with sweat, the sound of our heavy breathing filling the air.
I clung to him, my nails digging into his neck as I pulled him closer, even though there was no space left between us.
The couch creaked beneath us, our movements eclipsing every other sound. His body moved with mine, his hips meeting mine with a roughness that made my pulse spike, the friction unbearable and perfect all at once. My hands were everywhere—clutching his shoulders, his arms—desperate to anchor him to me, to hold him in every way possible.
His name fell from my lips in a breathless chant, mingling with his low, guttural moans. He drove his lips into the curve of my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before biting down, harder this time. The sharp sting shot through me, my body arching into his as pleasure blurred into something so intense it was almost too much to bear.
He grabbed my thighs to pull me deeper, his eyes locked on mine, hungry, demanding. I could feel his desperation, the way he clung to me as if I might slip away, and I couldn't stop myself from matching it, our skin slapping together with each desperate thrust.
The room seemed to close around us, but all I could feel was him—his hands, his lips, his body taking me in ways that made everything else vanish.
We unraveled together, the world narrowing to the rhythm of our bodies, the heat of his breath against my skin, the feel of him inside me, completing me. When the tension snapped, it was overwhelming—our cries tangled as we shattered and came back together, collapsing into each other.
He buried his face in the crook of my neck, and for a moment, everything stilled. The storm inside me settled as I rested against him, his warmth wrapping around me while our breaths slowly evened out. His lips brushed my shoulder, soft now, almost tender, and I turned my face into his neck.
"Stay with me," I murmured, the words carrying more weight than I intended. I needed more than this moment. I needed to know he wouldn't slip away again, that he'd be here. I needed him—not just his body but every part of him. "Be with me, Angel... please."
He tensed beneath me, his arms still around me but unmoving, like he was deciding whether to let me in. When he finally replied, his voice cracked at the edges, hesitation bleeding through.
"I'm here," he said, exhaling the words like a confession, his arms squeezing me subtly. "I'm here."
The weight of his words was undeniable, but the hesitation lingered—a crack in the surface that made me wonder if I'd pulled him closer or pushed him further away.
.
.
.
The squeak of sneakers and the rhythmic dribble of basketballs filled the gym, but for once, I couldn't find the usual comfort in the noise. My passes lacked precision, my shots falling short more often than not. Each mistake fueled the simmering frustration under my skin, and it must have been obvious because even Coach gave me a break, waving me off with a stern look.
Mark jogged over, a basketball tucked under his arm. His grin was easy, but his eyes searched mine with a quiet concern that made my chest tighten.
"You okay?" he asked, voice low enough that no one else could hear.
I sighed, raking a hand through my hair.
"Yeah, just... finals stress, I guess." It wasn't entirely a lie.
Mark nodded slowly, studying me for a moment longer before tossing the ball into the rack.
"You got anything going on after practice?"
Edward's note from that morning flashed in my mind—another one scribbled quickly before he left the apartment: Studying with my classmates today. Don't wait up. The familiar pang of hurt twisted in my chest. Even now, hours later, the words stung in their simplicity, a reminder of how far away he felt, even when he was right beside me, even while the bruises from his rough kisses two nights ago still marked my collarbone.
My fingers brushed the spot absently, the faint ache grounding me in the present as I glanced at Mark, the pull toward him immediate and undeniable. It was there—the unspoken connection, the flicker of something deeper that made my pulse quicken. But I pushed it down, burying it beneath everything else.
"I should study," I admitted, though my voice lacked conviction. "But I'm not in the right headspace for that."
Mark's brow creased slightly, worry evident in how his shoulders stiffened, but he quickly masked it.
"Want to go for a drive instead?" he asked, his tone casual but his eyes saying more than the words ever could.
For a moment, I hesitated, torn between the ache left by Edward's absence and the solace I knew Mark offered just by being there.
"Yeah, okay," I said finally, my lips curving into a faint smile.
The relief in Mark's expression was subtle—his stance relaxed, his smile soft but fleeting, as if he didn't want to linger on it too long.
He glanced back toward the court, the sounds of practice continuing in the background.
"I'll finish up here," he said, nodding toward the rest of the team. "You heading to the locker room?"
I nodded almost dishearteningly.
"I'll wait for you outside," I replied, stepping away.
"Cool." His response was simple, but as he turned back to rejoin the game, I caught the way his shoulders eased, the corners of his mouth twitching into a brief, unguarded smile before he moved to take his position.
As I headed toward the locker room, a warmth spread through my chest, though I wasn't sure if it came from the prospect of the drive or simply from knowing Mark cared enough to notice when I was barely holding it together.
Twenty minutes later I leaned back on the bench outside the gym, the cool air brushing against my face. The hum of distant voices and the occasional echo of a bouncing ball filtered through the open doors, but I wasn't paying attention. My eyes were fixed on the gym entrance, waiting for Mark.
He stepped out after a while, fiddling with his phone as he walked, his attention fixed on the screen. As he paused briefly, scrolling, movement caught my attention—a familiar figure jogging to catch up with him. Kyle.
Mark glanced over his shoulder, his expression softening, and my jaw tensed.
Kyle touched Mark's arm, leaning in close, his hands moving in quick, pleading gestures as he spoke with an urgency that made my stomach churn. My fingers gripped the edge of the bench tightly as I watched their exchange.
Mark stood still, listening, his expression calm but firm. When Kyle's hand lingered on his arm, Mark shook his head and stepped back. He said something I couldn't make out, his tone level but decisive. The subtle slump in Kyle's shoulders was enough to tell me he wasn't getting what he wanted.
I exhaled quietly, a knot in my chest loosening. Jealousy simmered down, soothed by the sight of Kyle turning away, defeated, as Mark made his way toward me.
Mark's eyes flicked to mine as he approached, and I stood, brushing my hands against my jeans.
"What was that about?" I asked, nodding toward Kyle, unable to keep the curiosity out of my voice.
He waved it off with a small shrug.
"Not important."
I raised an eyebrow, but his tone left no room for argument. Letting it drop, I followed him to his car, sliding into the passenger seat as he started the engine.
The hum of the tires on asphalt filled the silence between us for a moment. Mark glanced at me, his hands steady on the wheel.
"So… what's wrong with Edward?" he asked, his voice gentle but direct.
I turned to him, startled.
"Am I that obvious?"
He smiled faintly, his eyes flicking between me and the road.
"Not obvious. I just know that look—it's always about him."
His words unraveled something in me, loosening the knot that had been tightening since morning. I let out a sigh, my head leaning back against the seat.
"Things with him have been... weird. Since Olympia."
Mark didn't say anything, his silence open, giving me space. It was the kind of quiet that made me want to fill it, to let everything spill out.
I shifted, my fingers brushing against the seam of my jeans.
"He's distant. Like he's here, but not really here, you know? This morning, he left before I woke up—again. Another note asking not to wait for him. It's like... I don't know. Like he's slipping away, and I don't know how to stop it."
Mark's hands tightened slightly on the wheel, but he stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. His presence was unshakable, and for some reason, it made it easier to keep going.
"I just feel like I'm losing him," I admitted, my voice quieter now, almost a whisper.
Mark finally glanced at me, his expression soft but unreadable.
"That's hard… I'm sorry," he said after a beat.
The simplicity of his words, the way he didn't try to offer a solution or platitudes, was grounding.
He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel as if weighing the next words carefully.
"Do you think... he suspects about—"
I understood the question before he could finish it. The silence stretched between us, thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts.
Did Edward feel the pull between me and Mark?
"No," I said quickly, shaking my head. "I don't think he does. I mean, he's never... shown any signs." I shrugged.
Mark nodded but didn't say anything else, and for a moment, I thought the conversation might end there. But as I sat with the silence, the thought kept circling back, settling into something that felt like the only explanation. It wasn't just the stress of everything going on—it had to be guilt.
"I think it's about guilt," I added, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
"Guilt?" Mark repeated, glancing at me briefly, his brow furrowing.
"Yeah. Guilt over my dad. He blames himself for what happened—he doesn't say it, but I can see it. Like, every time he looks at me, it's like he's carrying something he can't put down." I swallowed hard, my voice quieter now. "I don't know how to make him see it's not his fault."
Mark stayed quiet for a moment, his hands steady on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. But there was something in his silence that felt... solid, like understanding without words. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, with a quiet certainty.
"Maybe he's not even aware of how distant he's become..."
I nodded, the ache in my chest easing just a little, knowing Mark was there—without trying to fix things, just... being present.
The road stretched on, the occasional car passing in silence. My thoughts, though, were a storm, circling back to the mess I was still wading through with Edward.
"I don't know," I muttered, more to myself than to Mark. "It's just... having to deal with all of this right now feels damn heavy." I ran a hand through my hair, trying to find the right words. "Edward's changed, like he's not even the person I've known my whole life anymore. And then there's my father, unconscious in that damn hospital bed," I said, my voice tight. "It's like I'm stuck in the middle, trying to hold everything together, but I don't even know how."
I glanced out the window, my mind spinning.
"It was my choice to come out to him, and look where it got us. A heart attack, right there in front of me... If I'd just waited—if I'd chosen a better moment—maybe none of this would've happened." My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard. "I wanted it to be about me, about finally being honest, but now it feels like I turned everything upside down—for Edward, for me, for my father. I keep asking myself if I pushed too hard too fast. And now I don't even get the chance to fix it, to explain why I had to say it then." My voice cracked, and I shook my head, staring down at my hands. "It feels like it's all my fault."
I heard Mark's slow exhale and I looked at him.
"You're right," he said softly, his voice thoughtful. "It was your choice, but you know… Edward's part of this too. He probably feels responsible in his own way." He sighed deeply. "The fault isn't solely yours—or his. It's no one's. No one is to blame. Coming out's never easy," he added, his tone distant. "Not for anyone involved."
His words caught me off guard. I knew Mark had always been supportive of me, but I'd never really thought about his own journey. I glanced at him, noticing a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes—a kind of expression I hadn't seen before.
"Was it—" I started, then hesitated, unsure of how to phrase it. "How was it for you…?"
Mark didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed on the road, but his posture shifted, a subtle weight settling on his shoulders. He seemed composed, but the tension in his jaw betrayed something deeper.
"Painful," he said at last, his voice steady but quieter than usual. "I came out to my family on my 16th birthday. Thought maybe that would make it easier, you know—doing it during a celebration. But it wasn't. My parents, they… just put me out. Just like that."
I felt my breath catch, the weight of his words hitting harder than I expected. Mark's parents—his own flesh and blood—had turned their backs on him.
He didn't look at me, his gaze fixed ahead, but the faint strain on his face told me how much he was holding back.
"Granny… she's the one who took me in. My dad's mom. She looked after me after that."
I swallowed hard, trying to process the weight of his story.
"I'm sorry," I said softly, the words feeling insufficient. "I can't imagine."
Mark gave a small shrug, though I could see how much it cost him to stay composed.
"It is what it is. They haven't talked to me ever since." He glanced over at me then, his eyes soft, almost apologetic, like he didn't want me to feel sorry for him.
Six years… such a long time to be estranged, to carry that kind of hurt.
I wasn't sure what to say. My heart ached for him, and I found myself wishing there was something I could do to make it better, to somehow ease the pain of those memories. But I knew there wasn't. All I could do was listen.
"It's tough," I murmured, the weight of our stories—mine with my father and his with his family—pressing down on us both.
Mark's lips pressed into a faint smile.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "But I got through it. I'm... okay now." He glanced at me, his tone certain and encouraging. "You will be too."
We drove in silence for a few moments, the road stretching on before us. The stillness wasn't uncomfortable; it felt honest—like the quiet after something deep had been said, and neither of us had to fill it with empty words.
I glanced over at Mark, feeling a flicker of curiosity stir inside me.
"Where exactly are we going?"
For the first time since we'd left the gym, his face lit up. A genuine smile spread across his face, and it felt contagious.
"I made you a promise," he said, his voice light and reassuring. "And I always keep my promises."
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the quiet excitement in his tone. It felt like he was about to share something important.
The drive took us farther from the city, the landscape shifting to quieter streets and grander homes with wide lawns and elegant porches.
Then we arrived.
The house was massive yet warm, its garden perfectly tended, with vibrant flower beds lining the driveway. It felt like stepping into a calmer, more inviting world—so different from the chaos inside me.
Mark glanced at me, waiting for my reaction as I took it all in. It was nothing like I'd expected.
He pulled into the garage behind a vintage convertible, the kind you only dreamed of owning. As the car stopped, I turned to him, still surprised.
"Is this... is this your grandma's house?"
Mark's smile widened, a spark of pride in his eyes.
"Yeah. This is it." He looked at me with such tenderness, as if sharing this moment meant more to him than I could fully understand. "It's the house where I started over, where I became who I am."
The joy on his face was unmistakable—not the pride of showing off wealth, but something deeper. He wasn't just showing me a house; he was sharing a part of himself, making the place feel even more significant.
As we stepped out of the car, the late afternoon sun bathed everything in gold. I was still taking it all in when Mark reached for my hand, his fingers brushing mine before he quickly pulled away, his cheeks tinged with color.
"Sorry," he muttered, seeming a little embarrassed.
I blinked, the sudden absence of his touch lingering in the space between us. It was subtle, but I couldn't ignore the small pang of longing that shot through me. I glanced at him, shaking my head.
"It's okay," I said, though the words felt hollow compared to the quiet ache that settled in my chest.
Mark stepped ahead, his hand resting lightly on my back as he guided me toward the house. The interior was even more stunning than the exterior—warm, inviting, and beautifully decorated, with a comfortable mix of old and new. The floors gleamed under the soft lighting.
"Granny?" Mark called out as we stepped inside.
From somewhere deeper within the house, a voice responded with a cheerful lilt.
"Marky? I'm in the back!"
Mark shot me a grin over his shoulder, clearly at ease in this space.
"Come on. Let me introduce you."
We walked through the vast living room, the walls adorned with various family photos, each one a glimpse into Mark's life—a younger Mark, a baby Mark, a teenager, all with the same familiar smile I had seen on his face a thousand times. It was strange, in a way, to see him captured in so many moments. I hadn't realized how little I knew about his past, about his family, beyond the basics.
As we passed through a large hall, we arrived at a cozy, sunlit area. The warmth of the afternoon light made everything feel intimate. And there she was—Mark's grandmother. A stunning woman probably in her sixties, with long, loose copper hair that shimmered as she moved. Her bright blue eyes flicked toward us as she walked over.
I froze, surprised by how much Mark resembled her—the same smile, the same spark in her eyes. It was almost like looking at an older version of him.
Mark stepped forward, pulling her into a warm hug. She paused, then looked at me with a curious smile. Her gaze flickered between us before raising an eyebrow playfully.
"Is this him?" she asked, her voice full of affection, as if she'd known me forever.
Mark mumbled a quiet "Yeah," but his voice had a soft, almost sheepish quality that I wasn't expecting. As I turned to look at him, I caught the faintest hint of red creeping up his neck, coloring his cheeks. It was the first time I'd ever seen him really blush, and for some reason, it made my heart skip a beat. It was endearing, and I couldn't help but smile at how vulnerable it made him seem.
His grandmother's smile widened, clearly aware of the shift in the air between us. Mark cleared his throat and shifted slightly, trying to hide his embarrassment, but it only made the moment more charming.
Stepping forward with a warm smile, Mark's grandmother extended her hand toward me.
"Hi, I'm Emmelle."
I smiled and reached out to shake her hand, about to introduce myself, when she interrupted with a knowing tilt of her head.
"And you're the enchanting Jasper."
I blinked, surprised by the adjective, but nodded, unsure of what to say in response.
"Yeah, that's me," I muttered, a little shy but also oddly pleased, assuming Mark had said that about me.
Emmelle's smile widened as she stared at me, her eyes appraising but warm.
"You weren't kidding about how strikingly handsome he is..." she said, her gaze lingering on me for a beat too long, before turning to Mark with a teasing look.
I felt my cheeks immediately heat up under her gaze, and before I could muster a response, I heard Mark.
"Granny." His voice was low, a hint of embarrassment in it, as if he were quietly asking her to tone it down.
She looked at him with an exaggerated innocence.
"What? You did say that, didn't you?" Her eyes flicked between the two of us, her smile unabashed. "Oh, don't mind me, Jasper, I'm a very direct person…"
Mark groaned under his breath, and I felt a wave of heat rush to my face, my embarrassment deepening as Emmelle's grin widened. I was trying to think of a way to play it off, but it was hard with her watching me so closely.
"Please, Granny…" Mark murmured, his tone gentle but with a faint edge of exasperation. It didn't seem to faze her in the slightest.
Emmelle patted Mark's arm lightly, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Marky, why don't you head to the kitchen and grab us some refreshments? I'll show Jasper around."
Mark hesitated, glancing at me. His gaze lingered, soft and searching, though I couldn't quite read the expression behind it. Finally, he nodded.
"Sure." His smile, small but genuine, caught me off guard, sending a flutter through my chest. "I'll be right back."
I watched him walk off, his absence leaving a noticeable gap as if the air had shifted. Emmelle turned to me with an easy, knowing smile, and I quickly refocused on her, pushing the stray thought away.
"So, Jasper," she said, her voice warm and laced with curiosity. "Marky told me you're pre-med. That's impressive!"
I couldn't help but smile a little, her comment giving me something solid to focus on.
"I've always been drawn to science and helping people. I guess it just... clicked for me. I want to make a difference, you know?"
Emmelle nodded, her eyes flickering with approval.
"I can see that. Marky always speaks so highly of you. I can tell he admires you a lot. And you're good at basketball too, right? He says you're a natural on the court."
I laughed, a bit self-conscious.
"I mean, I'm decent. I love the game, so I work hard at it. It's been a part of my life for as long as I can remember."
Her smile widened, a knowing gleam in her eye.
"And from what I've heard, you two have a pretty special friendship. You know, Marky's a good judge of character, but he's not always great at showing how much he cares."
That surprised me—Mark had always seemed transparent about how much he cared about me.
"Still," she added, "I can see he's got a soft spot for you."
Her words tightened something in my chest that I wasn't ready for. I tried to keep my tone casual.
"He's a great guy and a very good friend. He's always been there for me, even when things were tough."
Emmelle's expression softened as she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial.
"You know, dear, Marky doesn't let people get close easily. But when he does, it means they're important. I'm sure he values your bond more than you realize."
I swallowed hard, heat rising in my cheeks. I wasn't sure how to respond without acknowledging that I was in love with him, that every word she said only reminded me how deeply I felt for him, and he for me, even if we had agreed to stay friends.
I managed a small smile, hoping it masked the emotions threatening to spill over.
"I'm lucky to have him in my life."
Her gaze softened further, almost tender, and she gave me a small wink.
"I think you're both lucky, actually. And from what I gather... I don't think he's the only one who cares deeply."
She didn't say it outright, but the way she looked at me, the weight of her words, made it clear she understood more than I wanted her to.
For a moment, I couldn't speak, the weight of her insight hanging in the air. I nodded instead, not trusting my voice to say anything more.
The conversation shifted, but her words lingered, echoing in a way that felt impossible to shake, touching a part of me I wasn't ready to confront fully.
Emmelle led me through the house with infectious enthusiasm, pointing out family photos, a hand-carved banister, and a cozy reading nook bathed in sunlight.
The house was a stunning mix of modern elegance and classic charm, but more than that, it felt alive—each room inviting as if it held its own story.
When Mark joined us in the garden, we settled at a picnic table under the warm glow of the late afternoon sun.
Birds chirped in the distance, adding to the serene atmosphere. As Emmelle teased Mark about his childhood, his soft, affectionate responses drew my focus.
Watching him like this—at ease and happy—I felt as though we'd stepped into a dream. The moment was surreal, almost cinematic, with a romantic quality that made my chest tighten.
And then, my phone buzzed in my pocket, jolting me from the moment.
It felt like a wake-up call, snapping me back to reality.
I pulled the phone out, my pulse quickening when I saw "Mom" on the screen. Mark noticed, his gaze flicking to mine with a questioning look, but I just shook my head, standing and stepping away from the table before answering.
"Hi, Momma," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though I could already feel the anxiety creeping in.
"Hi, sweetheart," she said softly, her tone careful. "I didn't want to disturb you, but… I think you need to come home."
My stomach dropped.
"What's going on?" I asked quickly, unable to mask the edge of panic in my voice.
"It's your dad," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "He's awake, Jayjay. He's asking for you."
The words hit me like a punch, my breath catching. For a moment, I couldn't respond, my mind racing. Relief, guilt, and fear tangled together, making it hard to speak.
"I…" I swallowed hard. "Okay. I'll—um—I'll book a flight."
"We'll sort it out," she said gently. "Just… don't rush, but don't take too long, okay? He's… he's weak, but he's coherent, and he's been asking for you since he woke up."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me.
"Okay, Momma. I'll be there soon."
"I love you, sweetheart." She said, and I could hear the emotion in her voice.
"Love you too," I murmured before hanging up.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the phone in my hand, trying to process everything. When I turned back to the table, Mark was already standing, concern etched into his expression. Emmelle stayed seated, watching us quietly, her gaze understanding but unobtrusive.
"Everything okay?" Mark asked softly, his voice steady but laced with worry.
I nodded, though I wasn't sure if I believed it myself.
"My father's awake," I said, my voice a little shaky. "I need to go home."
Mark stepped closer as I spoke, his concern shifting into quiet determination.
"I'll take you to your apartment," he said immediately, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Before I could respond, Emmelle rose from her seat and approached me. Her warm smile softened the knot of anxiety twisting in my chest.
"It was wonderful to meet you, Jasper," she said gently, her hands resting briefly on my shoulders. "I'm wishing you all the best with your father."
I nodded, my throat tightening.
"Thank you," I managed, my voice quieter than I intended. Then, as I looked at her, I couldn't help but add, "Thank you for welcoming me. I—I really want to come back another time."
Her smile widened, the warmth in her eyes deepening.
"You're welcome anytime, dear. I'd love to have you again."
Mark was already standing in the archway, giving me a brief glance that seemed to ask if I was ready. I nodded to Emmelle, muttering another soft thank-you before heading toward him.
The car ride to my apartment was quiet at first, the silence filled with the muted hum of the engine and the occasional sound of passing cars. My mind was a whirlwind of half-formed thoughts and emotions, but Mark's calm presence grounded me in a way I hadn't expected.
About halfway there, he broke the silence.
"You know I'm here for you," he said simply, his voice steady. "Right? Whatever you need."
I turned my head to look at him, catching the sincerity in his expression. Something about the way he said it—direct, without hesitation—made the tightness in my chest ease, if only a little.
"Thank you, Sunny," I said, meaning it.
Mark's hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening for just a moment before relaxing again. He didn't say anything, but his lips parted slightly as if he'd been about to speak. Instead, he gave a small nod, his gaze fixed firmly on the road, though the faintest trace of a smile touched his mouth.
The rest of the drive was quiet, but it didn't feel heavy—it felt like the kind of silence that understood.
As Mark pulled up in front of my building, I unbuckled my seatbelt, already reaching for the door handle.
"Thanks for the ride," I said quickly, already half out of the car, my mind racing ahead to what I needed to do next. "See you."
I paused, my hand lingering on the door handle. Something tugged at me—an awareness that I might be leaving things unsaid. With a breath, I turned back, meeting Mark's gaze.
"Actually…" My voice softened as I searched for the right words. "Thanks for today. For everything."
Mark's expression didn't change immediately, but I caught the way his eyes shifted, the smallest flicker of understanding there.
"Don't mention it," he said quietly, his voice calm. "I just wanted to take care of you," he added, his tone charged with emotion.
The words hit me harder than I expected, and before I could think, I leaned back into the car. My hand reached for the back of his neck, pulling him into a half-embrace. Mark froze for a fraction of a second before relaxing into it, his breath warm against my shoulder.
I closed my eyes, inhaling the faint, familiar scent of his cologne mingling with something inherently him. My heart thudded wildly, the words bubbling up before I could stop them.
"I…" The rest of the sentence tangled in my throat, and I pulled back abruptly, the rush of emotions too overwhelming.
Our faces were close, too close, as I met his gaze. His eyes held mine, unwavering and perceptive, as though he already understood what I couldn't say.
Mark nodded, just once, and it was enough.
"Thank you," I whispered, barely audible, before stepping out of the car and closing the door behind me.
As I walked toward my building, I didn't dare look back, but I could feel the weight of his gaze lingering until I disappeared inside.
.
.
.
I burst into the apartment, the door slamming shut behind me. The silence hit like a wall. Edward wasn't here. His absence felt louder than the chaos in my head as I moved through the empty rooms.
Grabbing my phone, I dialed him again. Voicemail.
"Pick up," I muttered, yanking open drawers and throwing clothes into a bag, my hands moving faster than my thoughts.
In less than twenty minutes, everything was packed and ready by the door, but Edward's silence made me restless.
I was about to call again when the phone buzzed in my hand, his name lighting up the screen. I answered immediately.
"Edward! Where are you? I've been trying to—"
"What's going on?" His voice was calm—too calm—and the absence of background noise prickled at me. No chatter, no faint conversation. Nothing. It felt deliberate.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the senseless thought.
"My mom called," I said, rushing the words out. "My father woke up. He's asking for me—I need to go back to Olympia."
There was a beat of silence, followed by a soft sigh.
"That's good, love. Really good."
"Yeah. But… I need to get there as soon as possible."
Another pause. I could almost picture him, his brow furrowed, his jaw tight.
"I think… it's better if you go alone," he said finally, his voice careful, like he was trying not to push too hard.
"What?" My breath hitched, the word tumbling out without thought.
"It's not that I don't want to be there for you," he added quickly, his voice softening like he was trying to ease a blow. "I just don't think I'd be... helpful. This is about you and your dad. I don't want to make it harder for either of you."
His words landed awkwardly like they didn't quite fit. Something about them felt... off, as if he wasn't saying everything.
"Edward, I—" The words stuck, a knot of confusion and hurt tightening in my chest, twisting into silence.
"I'll be here," he said, quieter now, like a promise meant to soothe. "Waiting for you when you get back."
For a moment, all I could do was nod, even though he couldn't see it.
"Okay," I whispered finally, my voice thin and uncertain.
"Okay," he echoed softly.
We lingered there, caught in the stillness of the line, neither of us moving to end it. Finally, I forced myself to pull the phone away, the weight of the call settling heavy on my chest as it disconnected.
I stared at the screen, my pulse hammering in my ears. A sharp, unwelcome edge of anger rose up, cutting through the ache. The distance between us—it had been gnawing at me for days, but now it felt unbearable, like a wall I couldn't scale.
Shoving the phone into my pocket, I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. I locked up behind me and took the elevator down. Stepping into the cool night air, my thumb hovered over the ride app, but I hesitated. The thought of sitting in a car with a stranger, stewing in my thoughts, made my chest tighten even further.
Instead, I scrolled to Mark's number and hit call.
"Hey," he answered, his voice clear and reassuring.
"Can you take me to the airport?" I asked, my throat tight, voice barely there.
There was no hesitation.
"I'll be there in five."
I lowered the phone, staring at the screen for a moment before slipping it back into my pocket. I stood by the curb, my bag at my feet, my thoughts a tangled mess. When Mark's car pulled up, headlights weaving through the faint hum of evening traffic, I felt the faintest relief.
Somehow, in the chaos of everything else, I knew he would get me where I needed to go. Like he always did.