Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer
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Where the Lines Overlap
All We Know
~~ Edward ~~
You've Hit Your One Wall, Now Find A Way Around'
I step into the neurology ward, the cool sterility of the air pressing against my skin as I walk down the corridor. I was on my break when one of the nurses found me, telling me that the Wallon-Hale patient—Doctor Hale's husband—had asked to see me whenever I had a moment.
Now, standing outside Mark's room, I let out a slow breath. It's ridiculous that I feel nervous. I've been in and out of this room plenty of times. I was there when he was rushed into the ER. I assisted in his surgery. I've monitored his condition closely ever since. And yet, for some reason, I hesitate.
I shake it off and step inside.
Mark is sitting upright in bed, looking far better than the last time I saw him awake. He's still pale, still marked by the trauma of the accident, but his eyes are clear, sharp. He looks at me and smiles, his voice warm and easy despite the situation.
"Golden boy."
The nickname pulls a quiet laugh from me. I move closer, grabbing a chair and pulling it near the bed before settling down.
"Hey," I say, offering him a small smile. "You wanted to talk to me?"
Mark nods, his expression unreadable, as usual. He doesn't look uneasy or shaken. If anything, he seems… unaffected. It's strange, but then again, Mark is strange in the way he carries himself, always composed, always steady.
"What happened to me?" he asks.
I tilt my head slightly.
"You had a traumatic brain injury. It was from the accident you were in." I say simply.
Mark nods, unsurprised.
"Doctor Perez and Carlisle already told me that." His gaze holds mine as he adds, "What I want to know is how. I remember wearing my seatbelt—I never drive without it."
I exhale through my nose, considering how to explain.
"I'm not a crash investigator," I admit. "I can't tell you exactly how the crash happened or what happened inside your car, but based on how you arrived at the ER and what the paramedics reported, I have a theory about how you sustained your brain injury."
Mark nods again, waiting. His attention is locked onto me, unwavering.
I lean forward slightly, resting my arms on my thighs.
"You're very tall—six-nine, right?" I ask, arching my brows as I look at him. Mark nods. "Well, that means your head was positioned higher than most in the car. When the truck hit the right side, the force traveled through the vehicle, which usually causes a whiplash effect. But because of your height, the movement was likely more intense. Your head probably snapped forward and to the sides with more force than someone shorter, even with your seatbelt on and the airbags deploying."
Mark stays silent, listening.
"The way you were thrown around in the crash put a lot of stress on your skull and brain," I continue. "That's probably what caused the fractures. The cut on your forehead and the depression on the right side of your head made me think that. But I can't say for sure—that's just my best guess."
Mark processes that.
"Do you think I'm out of risk?"
I nod immediately.
"Your recovery is going better and faster than we expected, considering how serious your injury was and how delicate the surgery had to be. You just need to take it slow. Once your post-op observation is done and you're home, you'll have to take care of yourself and stick to your checkups."
Mark is quiet for a beat.
"Jasper told me you were there the whole time."
I nod again.
"It was… fortunate that I was the attending when you came in. so I took your case." A brief pause, then, "The surgery wasn't mine to perform—I'm not a neurosurgeon. It was actually only the third neurosurgery I've ever participated in, and I was just assisting."
Mark raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face.
"So, at some point, you peeked inside my brain and had my skull in your hands?"
I huff a quiet laugh.
"Literally. A piece of it, actually."
He chuckles, but then his expression shifts into something softer.
"Thank you," he says and I nod, but before I can respond, he adds, "I know you did it because of Jasper, but—"
"No," I cut in gently. "Not entirely."
I pause, searching for the right words. I don't want there to be any misunderstanding.
"I know it's obvious to everyone what's between the three of us," I say. "But despite that, I appreciate you—for the man you are. You're generous, caring, full of integrity, and understanding. I respect you a lot. I admire you a lot. And most of all, I consider you a friend." I exhale. "So, I was there because I care—about Jasper and the kids, too, but in this situation, it was mainly about you."
Mark is silent, staring at me like I've just knocked the breath out of him. Then, after a beat, he lets out a slow, amused exhale, shaking his head.
"Damn, golden boy," he mutters. "You just stunned me into silence. That's not an easy thing to pull off."
I chuckle, and he does too, the sound light despite everything.
"It's just the truth," I say simply.
Mark watches me for a moment, then nods.
"Well, for what it's worth, I consider you a friend too. And I appreciate you."
I nod back but don't say anything. I don't know if there's anything to say. Maybe I should acknowledge it, return the sentiment out loud, but something about the quiet between us feels right. He doesn't seem to expect more from me anyway.
A pause stretches between us before Mark breaks it.
"Do you know why I call you 'golden boy'?"
I glance at him, surprised by the shift in conversation.
"Not really," I admit. "I once guessed it had something to do with the fact that I'm blond."
Mark shakes his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
"Well, it suited you because of that, but no, that's not why." He exhales, looking away, his gaze distant as it drifts toward the window.
For a moment, he looks like he's seeing something far beyond the glass, something not in this room.
Then, in a softer, almost nostalgic tone, he speaks again.
"Jasper and I hit it off almost immediately, back in college. And one thing he couldn't shut up about was his 'best friend.'" He lifts his fingers to make air quotes around the words before looking at me again. "Of course, I figured out sooner than anybody else that you weren't just his best friend. So, naturally, I got to hear a lot more about you."
I inhale slowly, watching him, feeling… strange. There's something unsettling about hearing this from him. Like I'm peeling back a layer of time I was never meant to see. And yet, I can't look away.
Mark lets a beat pass, then continues.
"The way Jasper talked about you… it was like you were this perfect guy. No flaws at all." His lips quirk slightly. "And I knew that was impossible, but then I met you." He huffs softly, shaking his head. "And you were… beyond your good looks, pretty much everything Jasper babbled about every day."
I let out a breath, something heavy settling in my chest.
Mark's smirk fades into something unreadable.
"So, the nickname just came naturally. The perfect son, the perfect student, the perfect friend, the perfect boyfriend... the golden boy."
I let that sink in for a moment.
Perfect. That's how they all saw me. The perfectly controlled, rational, balanced version of myself. I used to think I could maintain that forever. But it wasn't sustainable. The pressure to always be that person—what everyone expected—became suffocating. And it wasn't just one thing. It was everything piling on. There was the veiled threat from Jasper's father, making me start walking on eggshells. Jasper not fully owning his own sexuality, leaving me feeling like I couldn't push past certain boundaries with him. And then there was Luke—the way he made me feel something I didn't want to feel, something I couldn't control. All of that built up until I couldn't keep pretending anymore.
I cracked. I lashed out. I cheated on Jasper. And when it all got too heavy, I just shut down. Told myself I didn't want a serious relationship anymore. I couldn't live up to that golden boy image anymore. It was too much. I needed to break free.
If Mark only knew how hard it had been to carry all of that alone… how much it hurt to constantly fight against the expectations, the pressure to be perfect. But how could he? Not even Jasper knew. I never shared any of it with anyone, never let anyone see the mess I was inside. And in the end, no one ever really knew the reasons behind the stupidest mistake I ever made.
I blink, shaking off the weight of those thoughts. What's done is done. The past can't be rewritten, no matter how much I try to make sense of it. All that pressure, all the factors that led to my mistakes—it doesn't change what happened. It doesn't take back the damage I caused.
Mark takes a deep breath, oblivious to my internal struggle, and I find myself mirroring him.
Then, his voice drops just slightly.
"I had to admit, you really were perfect." His fingers twitch against the blanket, his gaze locked on me now. "Until you weren't. Until you shattered Jasper completely."
The words land between us like a quiet impact, not loud, not harsh—just final. And the nickname, the meaning behind it, feels just a little heavier.
Mark drops his gaze to his hands, resting on his lap, his fingers curling slightly. His voice is steady when he speaks again, but there's no softness in it.
"And fuck, I won't sugarcoat it for you. I admired you, Edward." He lifts his head, meeting my eyes, and something in them sharpens like a blade catching the light. "But when you did that…" His jaw tightens. "I hated you."
The air in the room pulls taut. I don't move. And as much as I want to defend myself, I can't. The truth is there, lodged in my chest, heavy and suffocating—just like it's always been. I deserved that hate. I hated myself for all of that for quite a long time.
"I loathed you for how fucking cowardly you left him. For what you made him feel." Mark's voice drops, rough with something raw and unfiltered. "You fucking abandoned him."
I swallow hard, my chest tightening, but I don't look away.
I did abandon him. I left him when he needed me most.
Mark exhales, shaking his head slightly before leveling me with another piercing look.
"Jasper wanted you. Despite the cheating… he loved you." He pauses, letting the words settle between us before continuing. "Yeah, he fell for me. But back then, it wasn't even a fraction of what he felt for you. If you had just… stayed." His fingers flex, and his voice dips further. "But you didn't. And I couldn't understand why. Because I knew you loved him just the same."
The ache in my chest spreads, twisting into something thick and suffocating, but I don't react. I can only silently agree with Mark's every word.
"That's what made me hate you," he says, his voice steady and absolute. "Because you loved him just as much as he loved you… and still, you didn't think twice before shattering him completely."
Silence.
I sit with it, with the weight of his words pressing against me like a force I can't push back. I don't argue, don't offer explanations—Mark isn't looking for them. He's laying all this out for a reason, and I wait.
He sighs, deep and slow, before finally speaking again.
"You broke him. And even though that gave me a chance I'd already resigned myself to never having, even though it made Jasper look around and see me, I wasn't happy. I wished he'd never had to go through that pain. I would've gladly stayed in the background, loving him from afar, if it meant he had the chance he so desperately wanted… to fix things with you, to be happy with you. But you took that from him so cruelly." He sighs. "And then, after everything he had to face and fight through to overcome it, when he was finally secure and happy with his life, with everything he'd built, when our lives were settled, and we were happier than ever… you came back."
I see the shift in his expression, something more guarded, less sharp but no less intense.
"And at first, I was fucking scared." His voice drops slightly, like he's revealing something he doesn't often say out loud. "I'm not the kind of person who shows weakness or vulnerability. Even with Jasper, that's a struggle. It's a defense mechanism—family trauma bullshit, but that's not important right now." He shakes his head, brushing it aside. "I tried to hold everything back because I knew Jasper would spiral. I couldn't burden him with my insecurities. I had to be solid so he could be steady."
The word steady catches in my mind. I know how much that must have meant to Jasper—how much it still does. Stability, safety. Balance. Things I used to give him, back when we were kids, then teenagers, and in the very beginning of us… but I couldn't hold onto it. And Mark? Hell, he's the most solid person I've ever known.
Mark exhales sharply and leans back against the pillows.
"And that gave me the chance to really see you."
He pauses, watching me, and I brace myself for whatever comes next.
"Despite what you did, and that fucking stunt you pulled the night before our wedding, trying to get Jasper back—"
I break eye contact, looking away, guilt surging through me like a current.
Mark lets me sit with it for a moment before continuing.
"You've always been an honest man."
My eyes snap back to his.
Mark holds my gaze, unwavering.
"You made a mistake. A huge one. One that tore apart the future you had with Jasper." Mark's voice softens, as if weighing each word before continuing. "And I don't know what your struggles were back then. But one thing I'm certain of—they must have been heavy. So heavy you couldn't handle them. So heavy they made you crack, made you lash out." He pauses, his eyes never leaving mine, as if he's trying to make sure I'm taking this in. His words aren't accusing, just... understanding, almost empathetic. "You could've asked for help. For Jasper's help. But I get why you didn't. You were just a kid… you both were. Trying to navigate so much at only eighteen." His tone is thoughtful, almost reflective, like he's not just speaking to me, but also trying to understand that version of me, the one who made that mistake. "That moment, that mistake… that's not who you are. I know that." His voice is steady, sure, but there's something in his eyes—something that shows he truly believes it.
As Mark stops speaking, I can't help but feel a surge of disbelief, a strange mix of awe and humility.
Once again, he's nailed it. Every word. Every nuance. He didn't need all the details, didn't need to have the full picture, and yet he understood it all.
He told me once, and now I see how true it is: he has this innate ability to read people—not just the surface, but the smallest hints, the subtle clues that would escape anyone else. He's not just shrewd; he's sagacious, almost unnervingly so. And as much as I want to downplay it, there's no denying that Mark, in his quiet generosity, truly sees me—sees past the mistakes, the mess I made.
If I were in his shoes, I don't think I would have been capable of that kind of understanding. Hell, I know I wouldn't. I'd have hated me. I would've let all that bitterness and resentment fester without a second thought. But Mark? He's something else. He's the kind of person who doesn't just throw away people because they're flawed. No, he sees the broken parts, the pieces that were left scattered in the wake, and he acknowledges them with this quiet grace.
It makes me wonder—how could anyone be so generous, so open, to even try to understand someone like me?
And suddenly, it hits me with incredible clarity. This. This is exactly why Jasper loves him so much.
Jasper, who's always been drawn to strength in the quietest, most unexpected ways. To the patience and unwavering steadiness that Mark offers, the understanding that he doesn't have to demand or shout to make his point. I can see it now—how Mark's generosity isn't just a trait; it's a lifeline for Jasper. It's what Jasper needs, what he's always needed. It's what his father never gave him growing up, and that's why Jasper's always sought it, unconsciously, in the people he lets into his life.
I'm so lost in the weight of that realization that I barely hear Mark take a breath before he continues, voice dropping slightly but still steady.
"I also know that… all this time, you were hurting. You were jealous. I saw the way you looked at Jasper—those deeply-in-love, sad-as-hell eyes, all the damn time." His expression softens, just a fraction. "But you did your best to respect me. To respect us. I saw it. All of it."
I exhale, but the tightness in my chest doesn't ease.
"And the fact that my kids love you…" He shakes his head, almost to himself. "They wouldn't if you weren't a good person. Kids have a way of sensing these things."
Something shifts in his gaze, something deeper, heavier.
"Noah—" Mark's voice catches for half a second before he powers through. "Noah is the hardest person in my life to trust anyone. Even me. I'm his father, and still, he struggles." He looks directly at me. "But the very day he met you, he saw you. He trusted you enough to let you look him in the eyes. And from then on, he's been going to you every chance he gets."
I feel my throat tighten, but I stay silent.
Mark stops, straightens a little, then looks at me with an intensity that roots me in place.
"I'm telling you all this for a reason. Because I need you to understand what I'm doing once I do it." His voice is steady, deliberate. "I know that if I get better, if I make it through this, my life with Jasper won't change." He pauses, letting the weight of that settle before continuing. "But if I don't… I need to make sure my kids and my husband get the love and care they deserve."
I run a hand through my hair, dragging my fingers through the strands before resting my arm lightly on the bed. My eyes narrow as I try to make sense of what he's saying.
"What are you getting at?" I ask, my voice measured.
Mark exhales slowly, as if bracing himself. Then, carefully—almost as if explaining something difficult to a child—he speaks, his words deliberate.
"If I don't make it out of here—"
I raise a hand, cutting him off.
"You will." My voice is firm, certain. "You're progressing, Mark."
But he doesn't let me finish.
"Just listen, golden boy."
Something about the way he says it makes my stomach tighten.
"If I don't…" he continues, his voice steady, "I need you to promise me something."
I don't move. I don't speak. I just wait, my full attention locked on him.
"I need you to promise me you'll be there for Jasper. And for the kids." His gaze doesn't waver, his words weighted with something more—something unspoken but unmistakable.
A heavy breath escapes me.
"I will," I say, because of course I will. But then I shake my head, trying to make him understand. "But not in the way you seem to be implying." He doesn't react, doesn't correct me, and that only confirms what I already know. I sigh again, pressing my lips together before I try to explain. "Mark… Jasper won't accept me like that." My voice is quieter now, but certain. "Even if—" I hesitate, then shake my head again. "Even if your words are true, it doesn't matter. He'll never let it happen, no matter the circumstance."
Mark studies me, his gaze unreadable. A long pause stretches between us before he asks, almost incredulously.
"How dumb are you?"
I don't take offense. He's trying to make a point, trying to make me understand something.
"What do you mean?" I ask instead.
Mark just looks at me, calm and unwavering.
"Jasper loves you," he says simply.
Something strange stirs in my chest. It's not like I don't know it. I do. But hearing it from Mark—Jasper's husband, the love of his life, as Jasper himself put it—feels like something else entirely.
"I know," I admit, but then I add, "but not like he loves you. Not the kind of love that makes you want to be with someone."
Mark nods.
"Right. He's not in love with you," he says, calm and matter-of-fact. "Because he's in love with me." Then he asks, "But what do you think happens if I'm not in the picture anymore?"
I hesitate, a deep unease settling inside me.
"You're making assumptions."
Mark shakes his head.
"I know Jasper. Better than anyone. Better than you. Nineteen years together." His voice is quiet but firm. "I know that if I'm not around, what he once felt for you will come back." He pauses, then adds with certainty, "It won't be a matter of if. It'll just be a matter of when."
I can't doubt him. If he can see me this clearly despite how little we've shared, of course he understands his husband better than anyone.
I don't know what to say. His words settle over me, pressing down on something I've never even dared to hope for—let alone consider.
Mark watches me for a moment longer before speaking again, his voice steady.
"I intend to be around for a long time. I'm not going anywhere." His lips press together briefly before he adds, "But I need a backup plan—like life insurance. For them. I need to know that if something happens to me, Jasper and the kids will be taken care of. That they'll be happy." He exhales. "That's all I've ever wanted for Jasper. All I want for them."
I take it in, sitting with it. Because that's all I want too. For Jasper. For the kids. I want them to be okay. To be happy. Just like Mark does. But I can't shake the feeling that it won't be me. That Jasper will never—
A hand wraps around my wrist, grounding me. I still.
Mark's voice is softer now, but no less certain.
"You love him. You love them. You want the same thing for him and the kids as I do." His grip is light but firm. "That makes you the only person who can guarantee me that, if I'm not here, they'll have everything they need and deserve." A pause. Then, "I trust you, Edward."
Something in me tightens, sharp and undeniable, like a piece of myself shifting into place—one I didn't even know was missing. It's not just the weight of responsibility Mark is placing on me; it's the trust, the certainty. It presses against every doubt I've ever had about my place in Jasper's life, every question I was too afraid to ask.
I nod.
Because there's only one answer I can give him. Because despite everything—despite the past, despite the mistakes—I want what he wants. I always have.
Mark sighs, and his gaze sharpens.
"Promise me."
I meet his eyes, steady this time.
"I promise." The words settle into something deep inside me, something I hadn't realized was there—responsibility, maybe, or something closer to acceptance. Then, softer, because I need him to believe it as much as I do, I add, "None of that will happen. You're going home to your family."
And just then, I feel it—not just eyes on me, but his. That pull, that quiet, unshakable awareness I've always had. I don't have to look to know, but I do anyway. My gaze lifts to the observation window, and there he is.
"Jasper is there," I murmur.
Mark turns his head toward the window, his expression unreadable.
"Keep this to yourself," he murmurs, just barely moving his lips. "For now."
I nod once. We exchange a look. Then I stand, take one last glance at him, and leave the room.
.
.
.
Mark has been recovering well. It's a relief—not just for him, but for Jasper, for the kids, for all of us. He pulled through. He's here, home with his husband and their children, and that's what matters.
Jasper looks better, too. There was a moment—too brief for anyone else to catch, but enough for me—that had me worried. Really worried. Because I know how much he loves Mark, how much it would break him if something had gone wrong. But it didn't. Mark is here. Jasper is smiling again.
I sigh, realizing the food is finally ready. It's a small thing, but it feels good, knowing I could help them even in ways as simple as this—being here, making sure Jasper knows Mark is cared for.
Emmelle steps back into the living room, and when she catches my eye, she smiles.
"The kids are almost ready," she says to Jasper.
I nod, distractedly turning off the cooktop.
"Food's ready," I say, already reaching for the plates. "I'll set the table."
I place them on the counter, grab the cutlery, and start moving everything to the table when Mark's voice cuts through.
"I'll have some water."
"I can get it for you," I say, already heading for the fridge.
I take a glass, fill it, and as I move to bring it to him, I notice something off. Jasper is guiding Mark back to the couch, his movements careful—too careful. Mark is unsteady.
I rush to him, placing the glass down on the coffee table and kneeling in front of him. I take his chin, angling his face toward me, but he's looking at Jasper.
"Mark, can you look at me?"
He doesn't. He rushes to speak to Jasper, but I barely register his words… because his left hand is trembling, and his right is twitching where it grips Jasper's. His breathing—uneven, too heavy—reaches me then, strained and labored.
Something's wrong.
I shift just enough to get a better look at him. His pupils are blown wide. My stomach twists. This isn't—this isn't good.
Before I can act, Mark's head jerks out of my reach in a sharp, unnatural movement, and for a second, I brace for a seizure. But then—nothing. He just stills.
"Sunny?" Jasper's voice is tight, panic creeping in. I can't focus on that right now.
"Emmelle," I say, barely turning my head. She doesn't move. She's frozen. "Emmelle," I say again, sharper this time. "Take Jasper from here."
I don't wait to see if she listens. I ease Mark onto the floor, my pulse pounding in my ears. Jasper is calling for him. For me. His voice barely registers because I'm pressing two fingers to Mark's neck—
No pulse.
I lean down, listen for breath.
Nothing.
I start CPR.
He has to live.
Jasper needs him.
I can't let him die.
A voice in the back of my head tells me it's already too late. I shove it down.
"Edward?" Joanne's voice.
I don't look at her, but somehow, I know—the kids are about to come down.
"Don't let the kids down!" I shout. "Call 911!"
I don't check if she listens. I just keep going.
"Come on, Mark, you can't leave him…" I catch myself murmuring. "He needs you. They need you. Come back… please, come back…" My breath is ragged. "Come on, you told me you weren't going anywhere. So breathe. I need you to breathe—Jasper needs you, you can't die—"
But the voice in my head gets louder, screaming over everything else.
Stop! He's dead! Look at him!
Mark's lips—parted, already losing color.
Eyelids—half-open.
Pupils—still blown wide.
His chest—motionless.
And then—I see it.
A thin streak of blood trailing from the corner of his nose. Another from his left ear.
The breath leaves me like a punch to the gut. My hands falter. My vision blurs.
I press my fingers harder against his neck.
Nothing.
I lean in, my ear over his mouth, waiting for breath, for the smallest sign of life.
But there's nothing.
"He's gone." The words slip out before I can stop them.
Jasper's voice breaks through.
"You have to do something." His voice is choked, broken by sobs. "Do something—"
Tears sting my eyes, but I don't move. I just look at Mark. At the man who should still be here.
"You said you weren't going anywhere… you can't leave him," I murmur.
And then, the thought that finally forces me to lift my head—
Turn around. Jasper needs you now.
I turn—and the second I see him, something in me breaks.
He's on the floor, Emmelle holding him from behind, her arms tight around him like she can somehow keep him from falling apart. But he already is. His whole face twists, crushed under the weight of what just happened, and then—
A sob rips out of him, raw and gutting, like it's tearing straight from his soul.
I can't stand it. I can't—
I drop to my knees in front of him, barely aware of the tears streaking down my own face.
"I'm sorry." My hands move on their own, cupping his face, feeling the heat of his skin, the dampness of his tears. "I did everything I could. I'm so sorry."
But it isn't enough. It will never be enough.
My voice shakes as I swallow down the sob clawing up my throat.
"I'm—so sorry."
Jasper's face tightens, his entire body wound so tight it looks like he might snap under the force of his grief. His breath stutters, catches—
Then he wrenches himself free from Emmelle's grasp and throws himself at me.
I catch him. My arms lock around him as he crumples against me.
And God—he's trembling so hard. His entire body shakes with the force of his sobs, loud, gasping, relentless. It hurts to hear. It hurts to feel.
I hear the paramedics rush around us, but I don't move an inch. I just hold him tighter, pressing my face into his hair, my own tears falling silently.
I don't tell him it'll be okay. It won't. Not right now.
So I just hold him. As tight as I can. As long as he needs.
.
.
.
The moments following Mark's death feel like a distant blur—disjointed fragments of words, movement, and decisions made in a haze of shock and exhaustion.
I'd asked for a meeting with my supervisors, Dr. Forbes and my father. There had been little thought in that, just the need to speak, to say what had happened. To put into words the loss I wasn't sure how to process myself.
I'd sat across from Dr. Forbes and my father in the sterile conference room, both of them focused, listening, as I explained what had transpired and why I needed time off. I wasn't asking for much—just five days, a brief respite—but I needed it to help Jasper. To help the family. To be there while the process took shape. To assist with everything I could, because I was the one who had been close to Mark, who had witnessed the unfolding horror that had culminated in his sudden passing.
Dr. Forbes had been gracious, even if she was concerned. She'd granted me the time without much hesitation. There were extra hours in my schedule, hours I had worked countless times to cover for others, and it all counted now. Carlisle had given me a long look but said little; he understood more than most what this meant, being close to the Jasper as well. He didn't need to say anything. The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable; it was mutual understanding.
As I leave the room, the weight of it all settles again, like a cloud I can't shake. I've done all I can for now, and yet, it still feels like nothing. There's nothing that can change what's already happened.
Now, I find myself in the medical wing, standing just outside the autopsy room. I take a deep breath, my mind a tangle of thoughts. I'm finally able to speak to Dr. Lin Shung, the pathologist responsible for Mark's autopsy, a woman I know well from the countless times our professional paths have crossed. Her expression is carefully neutral when she meets my eyes.
"Dr. Cullen," she greets me with a nod. "You wanted to know about the results."
I nod, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
"Yes. The cause of death. Was there anything... unexpected?"
Lin's brow furrows, her hands folding across her chest.
"It's as we suspected. The aneurysm was deep—too deep for anyone to have detected during surgery." Her eyes meet mine with somber clarity. "This was a fatality that was always a possibility, given the trauma from the accident. The aneurysm developed from the injury, but it wasn't something anyone could have anticipated at the time."
I swallow hard, the words stinging like they always do when you're forced to face an unavoidable truth. Mark's aneurysm. Deep in the brain, hidden in a place no surgeon could've reached, no scan could've shown. The tragic irony—it had been inside him all along, and there was no way to prevent it.
"Was the aneurysm the immediate cause of his death?" I ask, the question tumbling out before I can stop myself.
Lin nods.
"Yes. The cranial autopsy confirmed that. The aneurysm ruptured. It's a condition that can remain asymptomatic until it's too late. In this case, it was."
I close my eyes briefly, trying to absorb the weight of what she's telling me. It's a blow, but not a surprise. Deep down, I knew this was a possibility. We all did, but it didn't make it any easier to hear.
I glance over at Lin, feeling the lump in my throat.
"Did the paperwork go through?"
She nods again, pulling a file from the table.
"The release papers were signed just a couple of hours ago. The hospital representative finalized everything by the beginning of the evening."
I remember that moment vaguely. I had just left Jasper's house to come here when the representative arrived. I can't imagine the weight of what Jasper must have felt while signing those papers. I was sorry I couldn't be there with him for that, but at least he had his mother, his sister, and Emmelle with him. The formality of it all must have felt almost surreal, a cold contrast to the pain we were all living through.
I let out a breath, the sadness settling heavy in my chest, but I can't shake the worry that's been gnawing at me since earlier. Since I saw Jasper's face—how desperate he had been right after Mark's death, crying until his body couldn't take it anymore. I remember the raw sound of his voice, torn apart with grief. I had to give him a sedative to help him rest, shortly after the paramedics took Mark's body.
But later, just before I left, he woke up with something new in his eyes. His grief hadn't disappeared, but the rawness had shifted into something colder, something harder—an emptiness, a numbness that twisted in my chest. It wasn't the kind of grief that poured out; it was the kind that built walls, shutting everyone else out.
I nod to Lin, my mind still spinning.
"Thank you," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, but sincere. "I appreciate the information."
She nods back before returning to her papers.
All I can think about is Jasper—how he had been when I left him, how distant and withdrawn he seemed. The family—Joanne, Emmelle, Rosalie—they all agreed I should come back as soon as I could. They want me to stay with him. They feel, with everything that's happened, that I'm the one who can help him now. Maybe it's because, out of everyone in his life, I know him best. Despite everything we've been through—our past, the hurt, the distance—there's still a bond between us, something strong enough that the family trusts me to help him through this.
It's not that I'm the perfect person for this; that would have been Mark. He knew how to handle delicate situations like this. But he's not here anymore, so I guess I'm the next best thing.
Well, at least I used to know how to deal with Jasper's emotional needs. I know when to give him space and when to pull him out of himself without pushing too hard.
But none of that really matters now. All that matters is that I need to be there for him. Not because of what I want or what the family believes, but because Jasper needs help. He loved Mark so deeply, and I know the pain he's in. I just need to make sure he has everything he needs to get through this and heal.
The weight of the day settles around me again as I walk to my car, and I can't help but think about how much I've already failed Jasper. I've been there for him—through Mark's arrival at the ER, his surgery, his recovery—supported him when it mattered. But this... this is different. I can't fix this. No amount of time off, no matter how much I help with funeral arrangements or support him in the coming days, will change that.
I start the engine and glance out the window. The night isn't entirely dark, but it feels like it, and all I feel is a deep, aching sadness for what Jasper has lost. The world feels heavier when you lose someone you love, and I can only imagine the crushing weight of that on him.
I just hope I can help him carry it.
.
.
.
Jasper barely makes a sound, but I catch it—the softest exhale of something that almost resembles amusement. It's faint, nearly lost in the silence between us, but it's there. A glimpse of light through the haze that's been clinging to him.
I don't want to break it, don't want to push too much, but I need to hold onto it, even if just for a second.
"Good memory?" I ask, careful.
His gaze lifts, eyes clearing as he refocuses on me. There's a brief pause—just a breath—before I see him fully register where he is again. That flicker of warmth hasn't faded yet, still lingering in his expression, fragile but present. And for the first time since the previous day, I see a trace of him beneath the grief and exhaustion.
I let myself smile, small and quiet, nothing that would press too hard. Just enough to show I see him. That I'm here.
His fingers tighten around his fork. I wait.
"Mark," he says, shaking his head like he can't quite believe it. "He used to say the most absurd things just to get a reaction out of me."
My throat tightens.
Mark.
I think of him—not the way grief has pressed in around his absence these last 48 hours, but how he was. How he carried himself. The warmth that never needed permission to fill a room.
"What always stood out to me was his energy," I say, the words quiet, careful. I don't know if I should say them, but I do. Because it's true. Because it feels right. "Warm. He had this way of making the room feel lighter, brighter, without even trying."
Jasper looks at me, his expression shifting—something raw at the edges. But it's not a flinch. Not quite.
His fingers move absently, toying with the fork, and then he speaks, voice softer, like the words are slipping out before he can decide whether to say them at all.
"That's why I called him Sunny," he murmurs.
A pause. A barely-there beat where everything stills around me.
"That's why he was my sun."
I don't move. Don't speak. An old question of mine, long unanswered, finally finds its response—one I'd forgotten to ask, a curiosity that had quietly faded until now.
His thumb brushes against his wrist, over the ink I already know is there.
"That's why I got this."
And then it happens. The shift.
The warmth from before, the fleeting trace of ease—it disappears. I feel it leave him, feel the way the weight of it returns, heavier now.
It settles over the room, thick and unmoving. Not tension. Just grief.
I don't let myself hesitate.
I stand, crossing the space between us slowly, deliberately, before leaning against the counter beside him. Not in front of him. Not pushing into the space that's already fragile enough. Just close. Just here.
Jasper reacts before he realizes it. A small movement, barely anything, but it's there—a fraction of an inch, a subtle shift away.
I feel it.
I don't acknowledge it.
I stay exactly where I am.
Jasper looks up at me.
The motion is so natural, so instinctive, that I almost don't register what it does to me at first.
Almost.
Because the moment his gaze lifts, something in me stirs—something buried beneath years of silence, untouched but never truly gone.
He's always been just three inches shorter than me, but back then, it felt like more. Not because of the height itself, but because of the way it made me feel—that ridiculous, protective instinct I used to have. That I still have.
Back then, when we stood close, when he tilted his head to meet my eyes, it made me think I could protect him. That I could stand between him and anything that might hurt him.
Now, I know better.
I exhale, the weight of it pressing against my ribs.
I can't protect him from this.
All I can do is be here. And even that—I don't know if it's what he wants.
"Is there anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable?" I ask, treading lightly. "Even if it's me not being here right now."
The way he blinks catches my attention.
Something shifts in his expression—something small but immediate, like the words hit somewhere unexpected. I don't know what that means.
I want to tell him I didn't mean it as anything more than an option, that I just need to make sure I'm not pushing when he needs space. But before I can say anything, I see it happen. The flicker of uncertainty, the way he withdraws—not physically, but inward. Like I've unsettled something.
I try to read his silence, try to figure out if I should take it back, reframe it, but then his expression changes again.
There's something else behind it, something more complicated, something that keeps him from saying it aloud.
"If I'm making you uncomfortable, just say the word," I say, voice quieter now. "I don't want to—I don't want to make this harder for you."
I mean it. I need him to know I mean it.
He looks at me—his eyes lock onto mine like he's searching for something—It's hesitation.
I hold his gaze, waiting, giving him time. But when the answer doesn't come, when he still doesn't say anything, I nod to myself, resigned.
I get it.
Maybe he just wants—needs—to be alone.
I straighten.
"Okay. I'll leave you alone." I say, pushing away from the counter as I speak again. "But if you need anything—"
I don't get to finish.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, warm and certain. It's not tight, not desperate, but it's enough.
Enough to still me. Enough to send something sharp and unexpected through me.
My pulse stutters against his fingers.
"Stay."
His voice is soft, but there's no uncertainty in it.
I meet his eyes, looking for the hesitation I saw just a minute before.
Jasper swallows.
"I want you to stay."
It's not loud. It's not forceful.
But it doesn't have to be.
I hold his gaze for a moment longer than I should, letting the weight of what he's asking settle in. I can feel my heart tightening, a swirl of love and care for him, but also a quiet hesitation, a worry that he'll see too much. He can't know how much it's costing me to stay composed, to be here for him without showing just how deeply I'm affected.
It's not about me. It's about him. His needs. His pain.
Still, as much as I try to push it down, I can't hide the concern or the affection, even if it's not the time for either.
Jasper looks away first, dropping his gaze to the plate in front of him, to the untouched food.
But I don't move.
I stay right where I am.
"I can make you something else, if you want," I offer, noticing how he's staring at the food like it's offended him.
Jasper shakes his head slightly.
"I can't eat." His voice is quiet, but there's no room for argument in it.
I try anyway.
"You haven't had anything all day."
"I can't," he repeats, gentle but final.
Not sharp, not defensive—just fact.
But then, before I can even process the strain in his tone, the words keep coming, like something breaking open.
"My throat is closed. It's sore. I can hardly breathe, let alone eat."
I feel it like a hit to the chest. It cuts through me. The exhaustion in his voice, the way it catches, unsteady, frayed at the edges—tells me more than his words do.
I watch him closely, tracking every small shift—he's too pale, too still, the way he's holding himself, like his own body is unfamiliar, his hands curled into themselves like they don't know what else to do.
My fingers twitch, aching to reach for him, but I hold back. Not yet. I don't know how he might react, and I don't want to invade his space.
"Jasper—" I say carefully, trying to keep him here, but he shakes his head, abrupt and jerky.
His hands clench tighter. His breathing isn't right.
I feel it happening.
The panic—the grief—tightening around him, suffocating. Pulling him under.
"Hey." I try again, keeping my voice low. "You don't have to force yourself, okay? Just—"
The way he swallows hard, like he's holding himself back, makes me stop. I see the way his breath catches, the way his shoulders tighten.
It's happening fast. Too fast.
"I just—" He falters. His voice is fraying, starting to break.
I brace myself.
"I can't." His breath stumbles. "I can't do this. It's too hard. It hurts too much. I can't—"
His voice breaks.
"I can't do it without him."
The words land like a gut punch, tearing through me, but I barely register the pain.
Because Jasper—he's shattering right in front of me, and I can't stop it.
"I don't want to."
Then, suddenly, he's moving.
Not deliberate—he's unraveling too fast for that. But his body reacts, a sharp motion like it's trying to escape the pressure inside him.
He stands, but I don't think he even realizes it.
"I can't. I can't do it without him. It's hurting. It's—" A fractured breath. "I can't bear it."
I don't hesitate. I move, closing the space before he can collapse under it.
My arms come around him, solid, steady. One hand cradles the back of his head, the other firm at his back, keeping him here, keeping him together.
He jolts slightly, a fraction of a second of resistance—not rejection, just shock at how fast it happened, how instinctive it was.
Then, a shudder rolls through him, and the sob finally breaks free.
I tighten my hold.
He exhales, his body sagging into mine, and I don't let go.
I just hold him.
His sobs are ragged, shaking through him so violently it strains his breath. It's not just crying—it's breaking, a collapse under the weight of everything he's been holding back.
I knew this would happen. I knew this moment was coming.
Jasper told me himself—he needed to feel it. He needed to go through it.
But watching it happen, feeling him tremble in my arms, his body wracked with pain that nothing can ease—it shreds me apart.
I press my lips together, my hand steady against the back of his head. I can't make this stop, but I have to do something.
A sedative would help, but he's barely in a place to make that call, and I won't make it for him. Not when he told me he needs to feel this.
But there's something else I can do.
Cold water. It always helps.
I move slowly, guiding him toward the stairs, careful not to jostle him. But when we reach them, I stop.
There's no way. He won't make it up like this.
I don't think—just act.
I sweep him into my arms.
He doesn't resist. His arms curl around my neck, holding tight, but it's instinct more than anything. He barely registers what's happening.
He holds on, and I carry him.
Up the stairs. Down the hall. Into his room, then the ensuite, stepping straight into the shower stall.
I lower him to his feet, but he doesn't let go. His grip stays tight, his face still pressed into my shoulder, his sobs muffled but no less raw.
I don't mind.
I reach past him, turning the shower on cold.
Water spills over us instantly, soaking through our clothes, sending a sharp chill through my skin.
Jasper flinches, a small jolt against me, but he doesn't pull away.
I keep one arm around his waist, holding him steady, while my other hand slides into his hair, guiding his head slightly, making sure the cold water runs over him.
His forehead stays against my chest, his arms still locked around me.
I don't say anything. I don't tell him it's okay, or that he'll be fine, or that I'm here.
He knows.
I just hold him.
Little by little, the sobs shift. Still broken, still aching, but quieter.
His breathing evens out, his body gradually settling from the worst of it.
I move my hand from his hair, brushing damp strands back from his face.
"Jazz," I say softly, barely more than a murmur, "I'm going to take your clothes off, okay?"
He doesn't answer. Doesn't react.
I take that as permission.
Gently, carefully, I peel the wet fabric from his body, leaving only his underwear. He doesn't move, doesn't loosen his hold on me.
I don't either.
Still steadying him, still keeping his weight against me, I strip out of my own soaked clothes, kicking them aside.
His arms stay locked around my waist as I reach for the soap, running my hands over his skin, washing away the sweat, the salt of his tears.
He stays still, quiet except for the occasional sharp inhale. At some point, his forehead drops against my chest again, a silent surrender.
I don't rush.
But when his sobs fade into something smaller—just the quiet, uneven rhythm of soft crying—I reach past him and shut off the water.
The absence of sound makes the moment feel heavier.
I run a hand down his back.
"I need you to stand on your own." I say, keeping my voice as gentle as I can. "Can you do that?"
Nothing.
No answer, no movement.
But his feet are planted securely, his body still upright, even without my full support.
I let go, just long enough to step out, grab a towel, and wrap it around him. Then I lift him again, carrying him to the bed, sitting him down carefully.
He doesn't protest. Doesn't react at all.
I move quickly, grabbing another towel, drying myself off enough to wrap it around my waist before kneeling back in front of him.
I take the towel to his hair, then his face, dabbing at the damp trails left behind by tears.
It's only then that I notice—
He's staring forward, unmoving.
Not crying anymore.
Just… looking.
At nothing.
I sigh and stand, crossing the room to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer first. Nothing useful. The second—still nothing. When I reach the third, I finally find what I'm looking for.
Pajamas.
I exhale through my nose and reach for a set, but my hand stills. The first ones I touch are too big. Not Jasper's.
Mark's.
The realization lands like a weight in my chest, heavy and cold. My fingers tighten slightly before I move to the other side of the drawer. I find Jasper's—smaller. I pick a pair that looks comfortable enough: loose shorts and a long-sleeved shirt.
Turning back, I walk to him, kneeling in front of him again.
He doesn't react.
Carefully, I ease his arms into the sleeves, guiding the fabric over his shoulders. He doesn't resist, but he doesn't help either.
"Jazz," I murmur. "I need you to stand so I can finish dressing you."
For a moment, he doesn't move. Then, slowly, he shifts. He pushes himself up, his body sluggish, like it takes effort just to follow the instruction.
But he does it.
It's slow, unsteady—but deliberate.
I swallow. He's listening.
That's something.
I unwrap the towel from around his hips, my hands moving with deliberate steadiness. My breath catches as I carefully peel the wet fabric of his boxer briefs away from his skin. I work quickly, slipping the dry shorts on him in smooth, efficient motions.
"Okay," I murmur. "Lie down."
He obeys without a word.
I pull the blanket over him, tucking it around his shoulders. His face is slack, empty, his eyes fixed on nothing.
Then, the smallest shift.
His lips press together, his jaw tightens. A tremor passes through him before his teeth catch his lower lip. His breath stutters. A tear slips free, then another.
A crack splits through my chest.
I sit next to him and press a hand against his back.
He blinks slowly, his fingers curling weakly against the blanket.
His breath hitches again.
I stay quiet.
Jasper closes his eyes, his breathing uneven, and starts crying softly. He cries until sleep takes him. Even then, his face is drawn tight with exhaustion, his body curled in on itself as if bracing against the pain.
Once I'm sure he's asleep, I quietly stand and leave the room. Downstairs, I find the bag I brought when I returned this morning and take it back up with me. In the ensuite, I dry myself off, then pull on fresh underwear, a pair of jeans, and a hoodie. When I return to the bedroom, I sit at the foot of the bed, crossing my arms as I watch him sleep.
My phone vibrates from inside the bag. I move quickly, grabbing it before the noise can wake him.
It's Nate.
Guilt presses into my chest—I told him I'd call as soon as the funeral was over, but with everything that happened, I completely forgot.
I leave the room and answer the call as I descend the stairs.
"Hey," I say quietly.
"Where are you?" Nate asks. "I thought you'd be coming to my place tonight."
"I'm sorry," I murmur. "I can't right now."
A pause.
"Where are you?"
"Jasper's house," I answer carefully.
I hear Nate exhale sharply. He knows how close I am to Jasper—he also knows we were together once.
"I get that Dr. Hale must need his friends right now," Nate says slowly. "But doesn't he have family? Someone else who can be there?"
"It has to be me," I say simply.
Nate's quiet for a moment before asking.
"Why?"
Because I'm the only one able to pull him through this.
I don't say it immediately. I hesitate, knowing how it sounds. Knowing what it implies.
"Edward," Nate presses.
I exhale.
"Please don't be mad. Don't worry. I'll come to you as soon as I can—I just need to help him right now."
Silence stretches for several seconds before Nate finally answers.
"Okay." He sighs. "Just call me."
"I will."
I end the call and go back upstairs, settling once again at the foot of the bed.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Jasper starts tossing and turning, his voice breaking through the silence. Calling for Mark.
I move closer, placing a hand on his back.
"Mark's okay," I murmur. "It's okay."
His body tenses, then slowly relaxes again. His breathing evens out, and I return to my place, watching over him.
And it all repeats for the next two days.
Jasper is either sleeping, crying, or numb. He barely speaks. Barely moves. I manage to get him to drink water a few times each day and to eat—just a bit. Some soup. A fruit smoothie. But it takes convincing. Borderline forcing.
The second night, I get him to shower on his own with me supervising, but he seems like a ghost of himself, detached and unseeing.
I keep in contact with Rosalie and Joanne, updating them when I can. I call Nate the second night after Jasper falls asleep, but that conversation doesn't go well.
"We'll talk when you stop by," Nate says, voice clipped, before he cuts the call without another word.
That third night, Jasper thrashes restlessly again, but this time, between the whispered pleas for Mark, my name slips from his lips.
Sleeping, he asks me to stay. To not leave him alone.
His voice is raw. Broken.
He says he can't do it without me.
The words strike deep, hitting something in me that I can't immediately name. I sit back in the armchair near the balcony doors, trying to process it.
I don't know what it means.
For him.
For me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to see a message from Nate.
"Are you still at Dr. Hale's house?"
I type back.
"Yes."
His reply comes almost instantly.
"We need to talk. I need you. Can you come over now?"
I hesitate, staring at the screen.
"I will, as soon as Jasper is better."
"Edward, he's an adult. He can be alone for an hour or two. I need you now."
I close my eyes briefly before responding.
"I can't. He needs me."
Another pause. Then—
"So what, he means more than anything else to you?"
I hesitate again.
Then, slowly, deliberately, I type my next message.
"Yes."
As soon as I send it, I know.
Nate's not gonna want to keep seeing me, I can already feel it.
If I'm being honest with myself—
I've started to care about him more than I thought I would.
But not enough to change my priorities.
Jasper is more important.
So I send one last message.
"I'm sorry."
I really am. I do like him. I feel at ease when I'm around him. I don't want to stop seeing him, but… if I have to, then I guess I will.
I set my phone on the armrest of the chair and turn back to watch Jasper sleep, letting out a heavy exhale.
.
.
.
I step into my apartment, shutting the door behind me. The silence settles instantly, thick and heavy after the warmth of Jasper and the kids.
Almost a year. Almost a year with Jasper by my side again. I still can't believe it. Jasper is mine. Jasper loves me. We are together. And I am happy in a way I never was before.
But I know—God, I know—what had to happen for me to have this. What Jasper had to lose. What he had to endure.
Mark should be here. Mark should have been the one to grow old with Jasper, to raise their kids together, to be everything I now get to be. The thought twists inside me as I walk down the hall, past my bedroom, toward my office.
The need pulls at me before I even reach the door. I step inside, cross to my desk, and pull open the top drawer. The bundle of letters is right there, exactly where I left them. My fingers brush over the stack, hesitating just for a moment before picking up the one on top—the one I have read more times than I can count.
I unfold the letter carefully, smoothing the worn paper against my desk. And then, I read.
Golden boy,
If you're reading this, it either means you're too curious and peeking, or I'm not around anymore. I truly hope it's the first option. But if it's the second, well, keep going. I have some things to share with you.
First of all, don't feel like you're taking my place. You're not.
I felt like that once, but then I understood how Jasper's feelings work. He's the most generous, loving person I've ever met. And his heart is so big…
It took me a while, but I understood that I never took your place. It's still there, where it's always been, in Jasper's heart. He just made room for me, and with time, it expanded.
So, you see, you can't take my place because you have your own. So, if you're feeling guilty, just stop. There's nothing wrong with taking the chance if you're not hurting anyone, if you're not disrespecting something that already exists.
Anyway, if you need to hear—or better yet, read—all the words, here you go: I give you my blessing.
Only I can attest to how deeply you love him, because the love I see in your eyes when you look at him is the perfect reflection of mine for him. I also know how much you love my kids, so I'm sure you'll be a great father to them. Just please make sure they remember me? I know Jasper will do his best, but if it also comes from you, I'll be more present to them somehow.
Please love Jasper with all your heart. Don't ever hurt him again. Make sure he's happy and taken care of the way he deserves. Make him smile. Don't ever make him cry—unless it's happy tears. And love my kids. Make sure you have enough information to deal with Noah's needs, be rational but loving when guiding Leigh. Be good to them, but don't be lenient. Educate them, make sure they become good people. And make sure they are themselves, unapologetically—I have the impression Leigh will come to you with something very delicate about her at some point, so be prepared.
You're a good man, Edward. An honest, reliable one. I trust you with the three people I love most in my life, the only treasure I have. So that says a lot.
Thank you for giving me peace of mind when I needed it. And thank you for being there for me.
I appreciate you. A lot, my friend.
—Mark
I close my eyes, exhaling shakily as a tear slips down my cheek. The weight of everything—Mark's words, his trust, the life I now hold in my hands—settles deep in my chest.
My thumb brushes over his name, and I whisper, barely above a breath.
"Thank you for trusting me with your treasure, Golden Man. I'll make sure they never forget the great man you were."