B-POV

Every five minutes, I pinched my arm.

It had to be a dream. I overslept and stood Edward up. I was still curled in my bed as my subconscious conjured an extraordinary scenario for my entertainment.

Because it was impossible that I, of all people, sat in the passenger seat of a car driven by gorgeous, secretly superpowered Edward Masen. He could have stood on a street corner with a cardboard sign asking for company and received hundreds of offers, yet I was the one he turned the heat up for, after asking if I was cold. He was beautiful and fascinating enough to have anyone he wanted, yet I was one he allowed to choose the radio station for the drive.

I pinched myself again. This was real.

The song on the radio switched to something I knew after playing three that I didn't, but I remained silent. I was happy to sit back and enjoy the show. Edward didn't sing loudly—just a smidge louder than under his breath—but he knew every word to every song and I was impressed. He threw his heart into his karaoke with the occasional hand gesture and headbang. He took over for the artist whenever the Oldies station buzzed out of range, singing just loud enough so I could hear him over the static.

Two songs later, the music faded out and never buzzed back in. He frowned, tapped the radio with his finger, then lightly punched the top of the dashboard. He switched off the radio in defeat.

We didn't have to go long without the radio. After two more exits, Edward slowed down and pulled off the highway. The antique fair was held in one of the many quaint downtowns in the area. Every parking lot was already full, but Edward found a spot in a neighborhood several streets away and parallel parked the enormous Jeep with incredible ease.

I leaped out of the Jeep into a pile of leaves pushed to the edge of the sidewalk, making a satisfying crunch with my sneakers. I grinned up at the sky. It was sunny, by Washington standards. The clouds thinned just enough so the blue sky could barely peek through in some places. Even with the good weather, it was too cold to continue in my workout clothes without the constant movement from yoga to warm me. I pulled my wool trench over my yoga clothes. I had snatched it from the back of my truck before I followed Edward to the Jeep. There was no world where he could offer me his coat in a grand romantic gesture—it would never fit, even on a good day.

When Edward met me, he had a few extra layers on, as well. He had a jacket over his hoodie, along with a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a pair of gloves. He pulled his hood over his baseball cap as we started to walk. I grinned and bit back the comment that with his sharp jaw and broad shoulders, the glasses and hat made him look like a celebrity in disguise.

The fair was the largest I'd attended yet. Rows of booths and tents stretched out for as far as I could see. Some vendors were specialized—their tents were neatly arranged with clocks or boots or musical instruments. My favorites were the tents jam-packed with items. Silly little trinkets. Odds and ends. Each with a special story attached to them. Edward and I walked right past a tent of textiles and another of antique dolls to a display run by an eccentric old woman. Her curly, white hair was pulled out of her face with a headscarf and she wore loud, colorful jewelry. Her eyes—already enlarged from the thick lens in her glasses—widened as Edward ducked into the tent.

I was going to get a lot of that today.

I went straight towards the shelf in the back that held old leather, journals, ink wells, and casting rings. My attention was snagged by an old mahogany box. My hands fluttered toward the object. I stopped, looked back at the owner who gave an encouraging nod, then opened the box.

"A colonial lap desk," Edward muttered from behind.

"Very good young man," the shopkeeper answered. I glanced back and saw her take in how close Edward lingered behind me. She threw me a wink.

I supposed I was going to get a lot of that today, too.

I poked and peeked through the little compartments of the box while Edward explained the purpose behind each one.

"Watch," he whispered. He tugged on a small ring near the bottom and revealed a hidden compartment. "For the paper."

I shut the drawer and reopened it myself, amazed. "How do you know everything about everything?"

He chuckled. "My father has one of these in his study."

Edward's comment sparked the shopkeeper's interest. The two discussed his father's lap desk and the other items of note in his family's collection while I fiddled with the other items in the shop. I wasn't able to pull Edward away from the dazzled old woman, but I was able to distract her enough for him to escape by purchasing an old ink well.

"You sure caught her attention," I mentioned when I caught up to him at the next tent over.

"My gloves frustrated her," he commented, plucking at the leather on his fingertips. Before I could raise a question, he answered it for me, "She wanted to see if there was a ring on my finger."

I laughed. "Antiques and confidence. Both very attractive qualities in a woman. Would you like to go back in?"

He hummed thoughtfully. "Unfortunately for her, I already have my sights set on another."

I turned my attention to the ground. I was safe from the power of his golden gaze with his eyes behind the pair of sunglasses, but my breath still quickened. I knew they were on me. When I asked Edward to go to yoga, it was with the intention to share a pleasant experience I thought my friend would enjoy, but it was also an experiment. A test to understand his recent, flirtatious behavior.

I kept expecting his enchanting smile to fade, or for him to take me aside and gently explain how I misinterpreted his words. Neither happened so far, and I had no idea what to do about it. He should have blown out the candle by now. Instead, he doused it in lighter fluid.

Unsure of how to respond to Edward's sweet confession, I picked up the first item my hands could reach. I gasped when I realized it was a beautiful copper coffee cup, with intricate inlays hammered along the lip. The whole stand was filled with copper kitchenware. I put down the coffee cup in favor of the exquisite coffee pot behind it. I thought I picked up one stacked on top of another, but the two lifted simultaneously with one handle. Worried that I had done something wrong, I tried to shake the bottom off, but Edward stopped me.

"It's a Turkish teapot. They're all dual compartments." He pointed with his chin to the next display that was filled with hand-painted, copper dual kettles.

"Oh," I deflated, feeling a bit foolish.

"The bottom compartment is for the boiling water while the top steeps the tea."

I turned the kettle in my hands, tracing over the intricate botanical artwork. "When Charlie and I went to these things, we both stumbled around aimlessly, not knowing what to make of anything. The blind leading the blind." I laughed, a bit. "It's nice to have someone around that had the semblance of a clue."

"I'm somewhat of an antique myself."

"A hundred years old?" I guessed.

The corner of his lips lifted briefly as he picked up a pair of cups to fiddle with. "More like old fashioned and impractical."

"More like beautiful and charming," I corrected.

His gaze was fixed on the cups. "If that were all it took, you would be an antique as well."

My cheeks flushed. Again, unsure of what to do with myself when Edward complimented me so readily. Stating he was beautiful was simply a matter of fact. Ask anyone in the vicinity what word they would use to describe Edward, and they would choose one of two: beautiful or gorgeous. Throwing my name into the mix was an entirely different fact. It was either a bald-faced lie or misplaced kindness.

"I'm not a hundred years old," I retorted, halfheartedly. I looked away—hoping for my gaze to fall on anyone but him—and interrupted his next quip. "Oh my god! Coffee."

At the back of the stand, a man with strong features and thick hair stood behind a small, black folding table covered with tiny cardboard cups. The man handed me a free sample. Edward politely declined his. I took a sip of the warm beverage and was instantly in heaven. That morning before yoga, I drank from the bottle of cold brew Charlie and I now kept in the house. It kept me awake but didn't offer what I needed from a cup of coffee. This coffee went above and beyond. It was thick, aromatic, and warmed me all the way through from just the one, small sip.

"I'll take a cup, please."

The man smiled and nodded. "Sugar?" he asked in a thick, presumably Turkish accent.

"Yes, please."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"That thing is so cool," I murmured, watching as he took an engraved saucepan with a pinched pour lip from the hotplate and poured the liquid—thick as hot chocolate—into a disposable cup for me.

"It's called a cezve," Edward said.

"Very good!" the man grinned. He poured another cup and handed it to Edward, "On the house."

Once again, Edward enthralled the vendor with his knowledge of his wares while I poked around the shop. The conversation stuttered to a crashing halt. I looked over to see the vendor, eyes wide and mouth twisted with suspicion. Edward grabbed the first thing his fingers touched and set it on the counter. He continued to add items until the man was too distracted by Edward's extravagant purchase to press whatever strange thing Edward said or did.

We walked out of the stall with a cezve, coffee grounds, three tea kettles, and six copper cups.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nope." He forced the word through a clenched jaw—clearly embarrassed.

I laughed. I couldn't decide which Edward I found more charming: the suave, amorous intellect, or the bumbling, socially-awkward mess. I supposed it was charming that he was both all in one.

Having learned a hard lesson on being a know-it-all, Edward kept his knowledge to himself while I browsed the next three stalls. He didn't speak again until he handed me his free cup of coffee after I drained the contents of my own cup.

"Are you sure?" I asked, already feeling the buzz from the sample and the first cup.

"I'm not a coffee drinker."

I reached for it gratefully. When my fingers brushed his, I automatically took mine away. He did the same, and the cup of coffee fell to the ground. Before I could even think to move, Edward caught the cup in midair. He placed it back in my hand, this time supporting the bottom of the cup along with the side. I mirrored his position. I thought he would remove his hand from the bottom when I took over, but his hand lingered under the cup and under my hand. I extracted the cup from his grasp, and his hand remained where it was, touching mine.

Slowly and carefully, Edward twisted his hand until he could lace his fingers through mine. My breath caught in my throat. Our skin didn't even touch, but I was reeling from the sensation. Through the glove, I could feel that his hand was cool. Either that or my skin was burning hot. As a silent acceptance, I lowered my hand with my fingers clasped through his.

My cheeks flushed and my heart raced. I had no right to have his hand in mine. There was no way this beautiful, endlessly fascinating, curious creature was meant for me. He could have anyone he wanted. There was no reason for him to look past what I was, remove the bits and pieces that weren't so bad, and cling to those. I should have let go. Freed him from whatever delusion told him he wanted me back. But I held tightened my fingers, instead. To be claimed by him—even if it was a mistake—was intoxicating.

As we browsed the next few stands, I was abundantly aware of Edward's hand. Where I would normally reach for objects that caught my attention to admire them, I kept my fingers laced through his, too afraid to let go and ruin the magic. It wasn't until we walked past a large stand filled with old books that my hand flew out of his. I reverently held up a gorgeous edition of Jane Eyre and flipped through the pages.

While I read one of my favorite passages, I realized how cold and empty my hand felt. I immediately set the book back. I dropped my hand near Edward's, unsure of what I could do to get it back. I glanced around for something to drop. Something he would catch and return to me, so we could recreate the scenario from before. As I panicked, Edward's hand slipped right back into mine. As if holding my hand had already become natural.

I looked up at him, shocked. He met my wide eyes with a comforting smile and rubbed his thumb in small circles. "Are you going to buy it?" he asked.

I swallowed. "No. I would never be able to afford anything like that."

Edward let me look at the books longer than Charlie would have. Each time I reached out to inspect a book, turn through its old pages and inhale the comforting musty scent, Edward's hand was where I left it, ready to take mine again. Each time, my heart sang with joy. He playfully swung our arms as we walked between stalls. Once, he tucked both our hands into his pocket when we entered a stand with a sign that instructed us not to touch anything.

While I browsed a stand with quirky, ceramic animals, Edward pulled his arm up and over my head. He kept our fingers intertwined, so they rested over my collarbone. He used the proximity to whisper in my ear, "I believe they're being sold over there," and angled us towards something I couldn't see past the tents.

"What?"

He chuckled. "The fritters. You've looked at every, single one we've crossed paths with. They're being sold right over there. We should get some."

"Oh." I blushed, ashamed to be caught drooling over desserts.

"Come now." Edward's untangled us and began walking in the direction we faced. "You haven't eaten all day."

"Neither have you," I pointed out.

"That's true, but you're a much bigger priority."

I tried not to dwell on being thought of as much bigger than Edward. It wasn't what he meant. Nothing close. "Okay," I swallowed.

He smiled cheerfully, either oblivious of my discomfort or too confused to mention it. I was grateful for his leather gloves. Embarrassment slicked my palms with sweat. He pulled me through the maze of tents and stands and vendors, until we stopped at the back of a very long line, wrapped around a pavilion filled with stacks of Persian rugs.

We had just turned the corner around the pavilion when a pretty girl with strawberry blonde hair bounded up to us. I tensed. She either knew Edward or approached us to hit on him. But when she spoke, it was aimed in my direction. "Oh my god, I have the same set!" It took me a second to realize she was talking about my outfit and automatically looked down at my clothes. "Lulu?"

"Maybe," I shrugged. "I don't really know. My dad picked it up at a thrift shop for me."

"Oh wow, I wish my dad had such great taste," she laughed.

I tentatively joined in.

"It looks great on you," she added with another smile. Then, leaned in closer so she could whisper. "You're really brave. I was never able to wear something like that when I was your size."

My cheeks flamed with embarrassment, but I managed to keep my smile plastered onto my face until she bid me a cheerful goodbye. I received comments like that all the time. What they really meant was: if I looked like you, I would hide myself with a bag over my head. Yet, they always walked away like that I offered me the greatest kindness.

"It looks like there are apple fritters and apple ricotta fritters," Edward's voice pulled me back into reality. Suddenly, his hand around mine was heavy as lead—awkward and constricting. "I don't know what the difference would be. Which one did you want?"

"I don't know." Shame replaced any hunger I felt. I slipped my hand out of Edward's.

"Then, we'll get both," he decided, lightly and linked our pinkies together.

Again, I extracted my hand from his and stuffed it in my pocket for good measure. The small space between us was too tense, and I stepped away from him to alleviate the pressure. When that didn't work, I left the line.

"Bella?" Edward called after me.

"I'll be right back." I wasn't sure if that was the truth or not.

I stared at my feet. Without Edward's strong, leather-clad hand for guidance, I wandered through the crowds until I was spat out at a rear exit. Any concern that usually accompanied becoming lost in a crowd stayed silent, as if even my most basic instincts were embarrassed, as well. I plopped down on a bench outside a closed restaurant. I stared down at my shoes—the safest place for me to look—for an undiscernible amount of time. Any dregs of sunlight were fully shrouded by thick cloud cover by the time a voice called my name over the hum of the distant crowd.

"Bella? Bella!" worry strained Edward's voice. "Oh, thank god. Please do not do that to me again."

He hurried to join me on the bench.

"Sorry," I muttered, numbly.

"Are you alright?"

I merely shrugged.

He sighed. The sound was sharp with displeasure. "Well, if this helps at all." He handed me a brown paper bag. I could feel the warmth of the fritters and smell the sweet, cinnamon scent through the packing. My heart clenched. Even after I ditched him, Edward still waited in that long line to buy me a treat.

I unwrapped the top of the bag and frowned at the contents inside. "Aren't you going to have one?"

"No, I'm okay."

"Then why are there two?" I cried, fully aware that I was a grown woman about to throw a tantrum over a pastry.

"I told you I was going to get both," Edward answered calmly, despite the storm clouds brewing over my head.

I crushed the top of the bag between my fists and shoved it back into his lap. "What was the point of getting both if we aren't going to share?"

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not going to eat both of those, Edward!"

"You don't have to. Take the other home."

"Great," I muttered, sarcastically.

"Bella…" Despite my unwarranted attitude, his voice remained soft and sweet, like someone had foolishly wrapped one of the fritters in velvet to create the ultimate, unattainable luxury. "That girl genuinely thought she was being nice."

I sniffed. "Isn't that worse? Compliments for me are just insults in disguise."

Edward placed his arm behind me on the bench, opening up his side for me to lean into. I remained where I was. "That girl's unhappiness with her own appearance does not make you any less beautiful."

"It's not fair," I whispered back. "I can't go anywhere or do anything with it being a statement. All I'm doing is wearing the same outfit as that girl, but on me, it's an act of bravery." I reached for the bag of pastries. "If I eat this apple fritter, it's 'how I got myself into this mess.' If I were to eat something healthy, it's a 'hopeless effort'. I can never win."

"Do you want to know what's funny about the human mind?" Edward asked as he scooted closer on the bench. "People are so certain that everyone else is scrutinizing them so intently, that they spend almost all their mental energy making sure they appear… normal. Holding themselves just so, making sure their breathing isn't too loud or disruptive, worrying whether another cough would be too many in a certain span of time. Because everyone is so focused on making themselves the perfect wallflower, they don't notice anyone else. Rendering the entire thought process completely moot."

"Edward…"

"I am so sorry you have only been privy to the ignorant, petty thoughts harbored towards you," he continued. Again, he shifted closer. Close enough that my arm pressed into his side. His strong, solid side. His hand slid off the edge of the bench and caressed my opposite shoulder. "Those kinds of people have negative thoughts about just about everyone—they hold no merit. Just as many people notice your perfect mouth or wish for your curves. But, those don't really matter, either.

"Those who have thoughts that do matter? Well, they look at you and think of your kind heart, clever mind, and sharp wit. The things that truly define you. As for the rest of the ninety-nine percent of the population, you will never cross their mind. Not even once."

He leaned even closer. So close, the honey-lemon scent of his breath tickled my nose.

"No one is thinking about you as much as you think they are. Even me. Because you, Isabella Swan, never leave my mind."

I leaned against him, allowing his words to soothe my wounds like a balm. The wound wasn't stitched shut—cruel words would hurt no matter how few they were. But I could not deny that a weight had been lifted from my chest—one I did not realize was there. I spent so much time and energy forcing myself to be smaller, quieter, safer with the goal of protecting myself from the judgmental thoughts around me.

Thoughts that—according to Edward—never existed in the first place.

Edward reached in front of me and clutched my opposite hand. The leather was chilly against my hot flesh. He gently turned my torse until I faced him. Held in his arms, I lost all sense of anything. I could feel the heat from his golden gaze, even from behind his sunglasses.

"Please do not let any thoughts affect the way you hold yourself—especially the ones that don't even exist. Only one of us should be burdened by thoughts that do not belong to us. Let it be me."

His face was so close, all I needed to do was tilt my chin up and my lips were on his.

The sudden movement startled us both. A small gasp escaped Edward's throat as he pulled back. He dropped my hand from his and took the other off my shoulder. My pulse pounded in my ears. The shoe had finally dropped. I had gone too far.

Then, Edward pressed his lips back into mine. His lips were cold from the fall breeze and my own burning skin. It was the shortest, gentlest of kisses, but it was still from Edward.

So, it was everything.

He pulled back again, this time until he sat up straight. Our bodies remained pressed together as Edward tucked his lips into his mouth, as if he were savoring some delectable flavor. When he released his lips, they stretched into a grand, triumphant smile.

I couldn't help but laugh.

"Would you like to return to the fair?" he asked. His voice was husky, despite the brevity of the kiss.

What I wanted was another kiss. One so deep and passionate, it could tie our hearts together. For Edward seeped into every crevice of my own heart, and I yearned to have his. It seemed like a big ask—especially when we hadn't gone on a first, official date—so I merely nodded and stood. "Yes, please."

Bleeding Hearts had been nominated for best fic completed in November. If you'd like to give me a Christmas present, you can head over to twifanfictionrecs and give me a vote!

Thank you!