Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer

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Where the Lines Overlap

All We Know

~~ Edward ~~

Crush Crush (Crush) - Part II

"Where's Alexander?"

The voice catches me off guard, slicing through the quiet as I hit the last step. I stop abruptly, my grip tightening on the banister. He's standing there, his tall frame blocking the path to the dining room.

The Major.

His hands are clasped behind his back, his chest squared like he's standing at attention, even here. His face is unreadable, except for the faintest edge of something—disapproval, maybe, or suspicion.

"Upstairs," I answer, my voice smaller than I want it to be. "He's coming down in a minute."

He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just stares. The air between us thickens by the second.

"I see," he says, his tone impossibly measured. Controlled. "Seems like you and Alexander always have a lot to talk about when you're alone."

The corners of his mouth twitch upward, but it's not a smile. It's something else. Something colder. My throat tightens, and I manage a weak laugh, but even I can tell it doesn't sound right.

"Not really, sir."

He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in a way that makes me feel stripped bare.

"How's living together working out for the two of you?"

I hesitate. Is this small talk? It doesn't feel like it.

"It's fine," I say quickly, too quickly.

The words sound hollow, and from the way his gaze sharpens, I know he catches it.

"Fine," he repeats, almost thoughtfully. "That's good to hear." He pauses, a calculated pause, the kind that makes your skin itch. "And girls? How's that working out? Do you two have an arrangement?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy and pointed. My stomach churns. I glance past him toward the dining room, where I can hear faint laughter—Our Families' laugh. It's muffled by the walls but unmistakable. A part of me wants to turn and walk away, but his presence pins me where I stand.

"No, sir," I manage, keeping my voice even. "We don't have girls."

The silence that follows isn't just quiet—it's oppressive, heavy enough to press against my ribs. He doesn't speak right away, but the way his lips purse, the way his eyes narrow slightly, tells me he's thinking. Calculating.

Then he shakes his head, clicking his tongue softly.

"That's not good, Edward."

There's a shift in his tone—still calm, still collected, but colder now, like a blade pressing against skin. My pulse quickens.

"You wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea about you two, would you?"

The words are a slap. My chest tightens, the air around me feels thick, and my face burns—not just from anger, but from the weight of what he's really saying.

"No, sir," I say again, quieter this time, forcing the words out past the lump in my throat.

He leans in closer, just enough that I catch the faint scent of his aftershave. It churns my stomach. His eyes bore into mine, cold and sharp, and I can't stop myself from taking half a step back.

"It would be a shame if I had to pull Alexander out of college to suppress rumors," he says, his voice still calm but dripping with implication. "We don't need that, do we, Edward?"

The words hang in the air, impossible to escape. My mouth is dry, and my hands twitch at my sides, but I manage to speak.

"No, sir."

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze unwavering, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

"Although, I think my son would fit better in a military academy," he muses. "But that would crush his basketball dream, don't you think?"

I nod stiffly, unable to trust my voice.

"And you," he continues, his tone so smooth it almost hides the threat underneath, "as a good friend, will help assure Alexander stays on the right path, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, and this time, I don't even try to mistake it for a smile.

"Good. You're a smart boy. A good boy. You should also help him get a girl. And you should get one too."

Before I can respond, he lifts a hand and taps my cheek—lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make my skin crawl. The gesture is so deliberate, so condescending, that it feels like he's branded me with it.

He steps back, straightening his posture, his expression smoothing into something almost pleasant.

"Now, let's join the others. We wouldn't want anyone wondering what's taking so long, would we?"

He turns and walks away, leaving me rooted to the spot, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears. I stand there for a moment, trying to shake the lingering weight of his words, but it doesn't leave. It clings, suffocating and heavy.

When I finally manage to move again, my legs feel shaky, but I force them to carry me toward the dining room.

I'm not sure I deserve to be here.

.

.

.

The living room is dim, faintly lit by the city's neon glow filtering through the window. The glass is cool to the touch, faintly fogged where Luke's breath meets it, each exhale a shallow gasp of effort. The furniture is sparse, functional—a leather couch to one side, a sleek desk cluttered with papers and a phone, and a bookshelf stacked haphazardly. The air is heavy with heat and the musk of exertion, punctuated by ragged breaths and the relentless sound of flesh colliding.

I press him harder against the window, his forehead grazing the glass as he grips the sill with knuckles blanched white. His body jerks with every thrust, the sharp, rhythmic snap of my hips sending a jolt through both of us. My teeth scrape along the taut curve of his neck, relentless in their mission to leave marks that won't fade for days. He tastes faintly salty, a sheen of sweat glistening along his skin as I suck and bite, harder than I should, but not as hard as I want.

The room is filled with sounds—his moans, my grunts, the raw percussion of skin against skin, unrelenting, unrepentant. I hear the deep timbre of his voice, broken, desperate, pleading—but not for me. For more. For harder. For anything to match the madness I pour into him.

It isn't desire driving me; not entirely. There's anger coursing through me, venomous and searing, anger at myself, at everything I've done, everything I still want to do. It merges with the guilt, a toxic combination that fuels me instead of extinguishing me. I deserve this—deserve the filth, the degradation, the punishment of giving in to this compulsion. Every thrust, every moan he rips from his throat, every ounce of pressure I force into his pliant body—it feeds me. It sickens me. It drives me.

My phone buzzes.

At first, I ignore it, the sound cutting through the haze but failing to deter me. Luke's desk is directly in my line of sight, and the glowing screen taunts me with each insistent vibration. His name flashes across it, sharp and jarring.

Jazz.

The shame is instant and all-consuming, rushing up like a tidal wave that threatens to drag me under. My hips falter for a fraction of a second, and then I slam into him harder, faster, trying to drown it out, trying to drown myself in the heat of his body and the blind rage fueling me. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the buzzing away, but it only grows louder, more insistent, like it knows. Like he knows.

The phone's glow sears into my peripheral vision. It's impossible to ignore, impossible not to see his name blinking at me, demanding my attention. Luke lets out a guttural sound as I drive into him with a force that borders on violence, the anger now boiling over, uncontrolled. My release is abrupt and brutal, tearing through me with a roar I can't suppress, leaving me shaking, panting, and hollow.

But the phone doesn't stop.

I pull out abruptly, ignoring Luke's startled gasp as I cross the room in a few quick strides. The phone stops ringing just as I reach for it, the silence louder than the buzz.

Behind me, Luke's voice is tentative, almost curious.

"Jasper?"

My glare silences him before he can say another word.

I dial. The line doesn't even connect before I press a finger to my lips, the gesture sharp and unyielding. Luke's eyes widen, and he presses himself against the wall, obediently quiet as the phone begins to ring.

Jasper answers it on the second ring, and the second he does, I turn my back to Luke. The living room is quiet now, save for the low hum of the city outside and the blood still pounding in my ears.

"Edward! Where are you? I've been trying to—"

His voice hits me like a rush of cold air, the urgency in his tone unmistakable. I close my eyes for a moment, swallowing the heat still lingering in my throat, trying to quiet the noise inside me.

"What's going on?" I say, keeping my voice as placid and controlled as I can. Deliberate. I keep my back to Luke, my gaze fixed on the faint reflection of myself in the darkened window.

Jasper's response comes in a rush, words tripping over themselves in their need to be said.

"My mom called. My father woke up. He's asking for me—I need to go back to Olympia."

There's a silence. I let it stretch, just long enough to gather myself, to will my tone into something resembling steady when I finally speak.

"That's good, love. Really good."

"Yeah. But… I need to get there as soon as possible."

My grip on the phone tightens as I stare at the floor, the edge of the desk just visible in my peripheral vision. The words I want to say—I'll go with you—stick in my throat. They feel impossible, weighted down by the memory of the Major's voice, sharp and unforgiving, and the echoes of Jasper's pain after he came out to him.

"I think… it's better if you go alone," I say finally, the words tasting bitter even as they leave my mouth. I keep my voice soft, controlled, as though the weight of it won't crush him if I speak gently enough.

"What?" His voice is a sharp inhale, raw with disbelief.

"It's not that I don't want to be there for you," I add quickly, softening my tone, trying to make it sound right. "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."

Even as I say it, I know it's not the whole truth. The words feel hollow, fractured by the guilt gnawing at me, the remnants of Luke's heat still clinging to my skin. I can't ignore how far I've fallen, how willingly I gave in to the very thing that should repulse me, all while Jasper's been carrying so much on his shoulders. My presence would only make everything heavier—wouldn't it?

"Edward, I—" He stops, his voice faltering, and I can almost hear the confusion and hurt mingling in the silence between us.

"I'll be here," I murmur, quieter now, as though whispering might make it more believable. "Waiting for you when you get back."

For a moment, there's nothing but the faint sound of his breathing on the other end. I picture him standing there, the uncertainty weighing on him as much as it is on me.

"Okay," he whispers, his voice faint and uncertain.

"Okay," I reply softly, though the word feels wrong, an empty promise slipping through my teeth.

The silence lingers, stretching out like a thread about to snap. I don't move to end the call, letting the stillness hold us both, even as the quiet presses in, heavy with all the things left unspoken, suffocating me with its weight. When the line finally disconnects, I let the phone fall to the desk, the faint glow of the screen fading as quickly as the moment ends.

Behind me, Luke stirs, his presence a heavy reminder of what I've just done. For the second time.

I want to shut my eyes and forget, but I can't. I can't unfeel what I've done or undo the destruction I've caused. I can't stop thinking about Jasper—how he's given me everything, and how I've betrayed him again.

I don't deserve what I had with him.

.

.

.

I lie flat on my back, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Luke is wrapped around me, his arm draped heavily across my ribs, his breathing steady against my shoulder. The warmth of him clings to my skin, but it does nothing to ease the cold sinking into my bones. I feel filthy. Soiled in a way that no shower, no desperate act of atonement, could ever wash away.

I close my eyes, but it doesn't help. The anger, the guilt, the shame—they don't fade. They press down on me, suffocating, twisting inside me like barbed wire. I chase them to the only place they ever lead: back to Jasper. Back to what I just did to him.

I tell myself it wasn't about desire. It never was. This wasn't about pleasure, or need, or even want. It was about punishment. About chasing pain because, for a few reckless moments, it was something I could control. Everything else—my life, my choices, my future—is slipping through my fingers, unraveling no matter how tightly I try to hold on. But this? This, I could claim for myself. This, I could ruin on my own terms.

I know what I've done is unforgivable. I cheated on the one person I love more than anything. The one person who ever truly saw me and still wanted me. And I threw it away with both hands.

But I can't say I didn't know. I knew exactly what I was doing. I knew what it would cost me, and still, I walked straight into it, let it consume me. Because I already knew I was lost. And if I was lost, what did it matter?

Except—I don't want to be lost anymore. I want to turn back. I want to unmake this choice, undo this betrayal, take it all back before it ever touched Jasper. I don't want to lose him.

But I have to.

I know that. I knew it before I ever walked into Luke's apartment. I knew it when I heard the Major's voice in my head, when I remembered what he did to Jasper after he came out. I knew I couldn't be selfish. That staying would mean putting Jasper at risk—his future, his freedom, everything he's worked for. I can't let that happen. I won't be the reason he loses it all.

That's why I made this decision. That's why I told myself I was already too far gone, already broken beyond repair. That's why I let the anger and despair take over.

And that's why I did the one thing I can never undo.

A hollow ache settles in my chest as I turn my face into the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut against the sickening weight of it all. I don't want Jasper to know. I can't let him know. Because if he does, it'll crush him. And he doesn't deserve to be broken by me.

I let out a slow breath, pushing the thoughts away, and let exhaustion pull me under.

…

When I wake up, Luke is already moving. He stands at the foot of the bed, pulling on his sweater, his movements unhurried, unaffected. This is the first time he's the one getting up, leaving without expecting anything. It feels different from the other times when I've been the one to walk out. He doesn't try to talk, doesn't ask me to stay longer. I think I should be grateful for that.

I push myself up, rubbing the sleep from my face, and force my body to move. I grab my pants from the floor, fumbling them on as I follow him to the door.

"Take care," I murmur, my voice rough, detached.

Luke gives a lazy smile, something between amused and indifferent, and steps out.

The door clicks shut.

And that's when I see it.

The bag.

Sitting by the door.

My breath catches, my stomach twisting violently as the world tilts beneath me.

No.

No, no, no—

I don't move. I can't. My pulse slams against my ribs, drowning out everything else. The silence is deafening.

Jasper was here.

He saw.

My chest caves, a sharp, splitting pain erupting through me, worse than anything I've ever felt.

It's over.

I thought I had a choice. I thought I could step back, turn around, pretend none of this ever happened. But fate has already decided for me.

And now, there's no turning back.

I don't deserve to.

.

.

.

I pack his things slowly, methodically, though every movement feels like it's dragging me further into a hole. The clothes, the toiletries, his college stuff, the small things like his computer, his charger—touching each item feels like a betrayal. My hands tremble, but I can't stop myself from doing it. The tears fall silently, hot and relentless down my face. I can't make a sound. I won't. I don't deserve the relief that crying might bring, not after what I've done. This pain, this agony in my chest—it's all I deserve. It's the least I can do to feel even a fraction of the hurt I've caused him.

I force myself to focus, packing everything I believe he might need with methodical precision, but it doesn't make it any easier. I finish with his bed sheets—two bags and a box now, all full, all heavy with the weight of this loss.

I zip up the second bag and exhale slowly, my throat tight with the sobs that still refuse to break free. I glance around the room, and the emptiness swallows me whole. Everything feels so quiet. I close my eyes, and the tears return, running down my face as I sit on the floor next to his things. This is my penance. This pain is my price to pay, and I can't let myself forget it. I have to be away from him. I have to be, or I'll ruin him more than I already have. I've ruined everything.

I push myself up, forcing the tears to stay locked inside. The bags feel heavy in my hands as I carry them out to the living room. I sit them down by the door, but before I can even think about what to do next, the buzzer rings.

I move to the intercom, my heart pounding harder with each beat. When I press the button to buzz Mark in, I try to smooth the expression on my face, try to hide how much it hurts. Mark can't know. If he knows, he'll tell Jasper. And I can't let Jasper know how much this is killing me.

Mark appears at the door a moment later, and his voice is low but not unfriendly when he greets me.

"Golden boy," he says simply, not cold, but slightly detached.

I've hurt Jasper. I know Mark feels it, too.

I pick up one bag, but Mark's already rushing to grab the other one and the box. I get it. He doesn't want to linger. He's eager to be done with this.

Mark's about to take the bag from me when I stop him.

"I can help you take them to your car," I offer.

He waves me off, but it's gentle, not dismissive.

"It's fine, I've got it."

I sigh, sensing the distance in his voice.

"These are just the essentials—what he might need for now," I explain. "I'll keep everything in his room, for when he comes for them."

He nods and starts toward the door, and I hesitate. I open my mouth before I can stop myself.

"How's he?" The question comes out too quiet, too hesitant.

Mark pauses at the doorframe, and I can feel the weight of his gaze before he answers. He looks at me for a long beat, then takes a deep breath.

"How do you think?" he asks pointedly.

I feel my stomach sink, the knot tightening even more. The truth is, I don't even need to ask. I know what he means, but I still stupidly ask.

I nod, defeated.

Mark looks at me one last time, his expression softer than I expected.

"You look like shit, by the way," he adds, with a slightly concerned frown.

I look down at the floor, unable to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds. When I meet his eyes again, my voice cracks slightly.

"If he asks... please tell him I'm okay?"

Mark hesitates, just for a second, then gives a small nod.

"Sure." He turns to leave without a second glance.

The door closes softly behind him, and I lean against it, closing my eyes. I exhale, but it's a broken breath, one that threatens to turn into a sob. I fight it, clenching my fists at my sides, because I don't deserve the relief of crying. Not this time.

I don't deserve it.

.

.

.

Laughter hums around me, smooth and effortless. I match it on cue, smiling when I should, nodding when expected. My arms are draped around Luke from behind, my posture easy, natural. He leans into me, and it should feel simple—should feel like something I want.

But my chest feels tight.

The conversation ebbs and flows, their voices blending into background noise. I catch snippets—Laura teasing Jordan about a class, Theo recounting some half-drunken story—but the words slip past me. I nod, feign amusement, laugh in the right places. None of it sinks in. None of it matters.

Because I'm not here. Not really.

I'm keeping my body in place, keeping my face smooth, my hands steady. Every movement is calculated, controlled. It has to be. If I let myself slip, even for a second, I'll fall apart. I'll crack open in front of them all, and I can't—won't—let that happen.

I have to hold myself together.

But I don't want to. I don't want this—any of it.

The truth presses in, suffocating. I need to go. I need to get away before I unravel, before I destroy whatever's left of the fragile distance I've built. Because if I don't—if I stay here, surrounded by this pretense—I'll break. I'll turn around and run straight to Jasper, to beg, to plead for something I no longer have any right to ask for.

And I can't.

I have to let him go.

It's the only thing I can do for him now—the only thing I have left to give.

Because after everything, I don't deserve him.