AN: Halo! Took a break from Chopward to bring you this little ditty.

Thanks to my pre-readers May and Brina.

All the mistakes are mine.

SM owns all.

Chapter Twenty-Three

-Go Big or...Well, Too Late-

Twins.

There are two of them. Two babies growing inside me.

I force myself to breathe. Stay calm, Bella. This isn't the time to panic. Except my heart's racing, and my palms are sweating, so clearly, my body didn't get the memo. Okay, fine. Maybe I'm panicking a little. A lot.

By the time we get home, Edward and I collapse onto the couch like two crash dummies. The ultrasound pictures sit between us, staring back like a science experiment gone wrong. Twin boy. Twin girl. They're ours, apparently. Two tiny humans we hadn't planned for. Our world? Doubled. The weight of it? Tripled.

Edward is the first to speak, his voice low and cautious, like he's afraid saying it out loud might make it more real. "So… that happened."

I snort, which probably isn't the reaction he's looking for. "Yeah. That happened. What's going on in your head right now?"

He drags a hand through his hair, the universal sign for I have no idea what I'm doing. "I'm still trying to process it, but—"

"But?"

His lips twitch, the hint of a grin sneaking through the panic. "I think it's kind of badass. Don't you?"

I arch a brow. "Oh, totally. Nothing says 'badass' like two simultaneous diaper explosions at three in the morning."

He laughs, shaking his head. "You're such an optimist, Bruiser."

I shrug, because yeah, okay, maybe I am being a little dramatic. "I'm just saying, 'badass' isn't exactly the word I'd use."

Edward leans forward, elbows on his knees, the flicker of excitement finally breaking through his stunned expression. "Do you think it's from your side or mine?"

"Oh, definitely mine. Twins run in my family. On my mom's side."

He looks thoughtful, like he's filing that information away for future reference. "Huh. I don't think I'd even know if it runs in mine."

"Maybe it's just you being your usual overachiever self," I say, smirking.

His eyes narrow, playful now. "Overachiever, huh?"

I smirk. "This has your fingerprints all over it. Twins feel very on-brand for you—go big or go home, right?"

He gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror. "Oh, so this is my fault now?"

"Didn't say that," I reply, crossing my arms. "But let's not pretend you don't always have to show off. Just throwing touchdowns wasn't enough; you had to set records. Now we're out here having twins because, what? One baby wasn't ambitious enough?"

He laughs, nudging me with his elbow. "Well, maybe these two just wanted to make sure you weren't bored."

I glance at the ultrasound, at the two tiny forms that already feel larger than life. "Mission accomplished."

Edward's grin fades a little as he notices my expression. "Hey," he says softly, shifting closer. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

I take a deep breath, my voice quieter now. "Two babies mean double everything. Double the feedings, double the crying, double the diapers. Are you really ready to never sleep again?"

He scoffs, waving me off. "I don't sleep now."

I give him a pointed look. "Well, I do. And that sleep is very important to me."

Without missing a beat, he wraps an arm around me, his voice light but steady. "Then I'll take the night shifts. You'll sleep like a queen. Problem solved."

But his confidence doesn't erase the knot tightening in my chest. The air feels thin, my thoughts too heavy. "Great. Now I can't breathe," I mutter, mostly to myself.

Edward notices immediately. His hands are on my back, his touch grounding me as he brushes my hair from my face. "Hey, hey. Breathe, okay? Just breathe. You're not alone in this. I'm here. All in, every step."

I look at him, his face earnest and steady, and some of the panic starts to loosen its grip. "It's just… a lot," I whisper.

He smiles, his eyes warm, holding mine with a steadiness I can cling to. "It is a lot, but these babies," he places his hand on my belly, a gentle reassurance, "they're ours. They're the best of you and me. And we're going to love the hell out of them."

I lean into him, feeling the weight in my chest ease as his warmth surrounds me. My gaze falls to the sonogram in my lap, to those tiny faces captured in grainy black and white. And suddenly, everything clicks. The panic shifts into something softer, something that almost feels like understanding.

"It actually makes sense now," I say, the realization slipping into my voice. Edward tilts his head, curious.

"What do you mean?"

I rub my forehead, thinking back to these past few months. "The nausea. I've been so sick, way more than I thought was normal. And the mood swings… it's been like this emotional rollercoaster every single day."

Edward's eyes soften, his gaze steady on me, a gentle warmth that makes my heart ache. "You really did seem sick," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't want to push it, but… yeah, it felt intense, even for pregnancy."

I nod, feeling a strange relief as everything starts to make sense. "I thought I was losing it. One second, I'd be sobbing over the tiniest thing, and then out of nowhere, I'd be furious. Like, uncontrollably furious. But now… now I get it. My body's been working double-time. Because… well, there are two of them."

He leans his head back against the couch, his mouth quirking up with a smile. "So, that's why you cried over the Chinese food. What was it you said? That the noodles weren't…?"

My cheeks burn, and I cover my face with my hands, mortified. "Noodley," I mumble, groaning. "I said they weren't noodley enough. I don't even know what that means." I shake my head, wishing I could disappear into the couch.

His laughter spills out, warm and rich, a sound that both embarrasses and soothes me. "That's it! 'Not noodley enough!' I didn't understand it either, but, hell, if I wasn't ready to go find you the noodliest noodles in the world."

The memory of that night flickers back, how he'd grabbed his keys without hesitation, determined to solve the crisis. He'd driven from one restaurant to another, bringing me different types of noodles, each one failing in some way I couldn't even articulate. In the end, we'd settled for Wendy's fries and a Frosty, sitting in the car, laughing about the absurdity of it all.

Edward's gaze turns tender, his eyes steady and full of a quiet devotion that tightens my throat. I glance down, fidgeting with my fingers. "You never made me feel ridiculous," I say softly. "Not once. Thank you."

"Hey," he says, reaching for my hand, his fingers warm against mine. "You're my lady. I'm here for all of it. The moods, the cravings, the noodle breakdowns." His lips pull into a grin, and I can't help but laugh, the sound breaking through the lingering tension in my chest.

I sniff, fighting back the prickle of tears, and sit up a little straighter, trying to shift gears. "So… when do we tell our families?"

He hesitates, his hand resting on my belly, his thumb tracing soft circles. It's grounding—for both of us. "Soon, hopefully," he murmurs, his voice low and careful. "I don't want to wait until after the season is over. I want to do this together. Really together."

My heart sinks. The weight of his words hangs between us, heavy and familiar. "But…" I trail off, already knowing where this is headed.

"But there's no break until then," he says, his frustration seeping into the space between us. "I hardly get a day off, and when I do, it's just enough to catch my breath."

"We could send an email," I suggest, though I already know how that's going to land. "Attach the sonogram and—"

He cuts me off with a sharp shake of his head. "No, that's lazy, Bruiser. And it's so… impersonal. I want to do this right. I want to be there with you, really be there." His hand drags through his hair, leaving it a mess. The weariness on his face makes my chest ache. "Lately, I feel like such a damn ghost."

I scoot closer to him, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him in like I'm trying to stitch us back together. "You're not a ghost," I whisper into his shoulder. "Not to me."

He holds me tight, like he's afraid to let go. Even in his embrace, there's this simmering frustration, this weight he can't shake. When he finally pulls back, his eyes meet mine, a mix of anger and helplessness swirling in them.

"It's not that I don't believe you," he says, his voice tight. "It's that I hate how the whole situation is set up to keep us apart. This stupid couch rule… it all keeps me from being there for you." His hand moves down to my stomach. "You shouldn't have to do this alone."

The truth in his words hits hard. I want to tell him that I can handle it, but deep down, I don't want to do this alone. The thought of him out there, away from me, stings more than I can admit. But what is the solution? He doesn't want to wait, but doesn't want to rush it, either. There's only one way to truly do this right.

I cover his hand with mine, holding it against my stomach, and force myself to meet his eyes. "Then let's wait," I say softly.

His brow furrows. "Wait?"

"We don't have to tell anyone right now," I say, my voice gaining strength. "We can keep this between us for a little while. After the season is over, we'll have more time. We can do a gender reveal, throw a baby shower—make it something special. That way, you can actually be there for all of it. A hundred percent."

His shoulders sag a little, the tension easing as my words sink in. "You'd be okay with that? Not telling anyone yet?"

"Well… I'll have to tell Alice," I admit, biting my lip.

Edward's brow shoots up. "Alice? Why?"

I give him a look like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "She's my party planner, Edward. Who else am I going to trust with a gender reveal and a baby shower? I mean, I love you, but do you even know what a charcuterie board is?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Fair point. But…" His face grows serious, his gaze searching mine. "Are you sure? Do you trust her not to… I don't know, leak it to the tabloids or something?" His face immediately reddens with shame. "You know what I mean."

I'm not offended. Edward's life comes with a level of scrutiny I'll never fully understand. How many of his close friends burned him in the past?

"Yes, I trust her. Alice would never do that. She loves gossip, but not that kind. She'd rather die than betray me—or you. Besides, she's been dying for something like this to plan. She'll probably start designing invitations the second I tell her."

His lips tug into a small smile. "Okay. If you're sure"

"I'm sure," I say firmly.

"Then Alice it is." He leans back, his thumb tracing soft circles on my belly again, that faint smile lingering on his lips. "After the season, we'll do it right."

Keeping this a secret is harder than I thought it would be.

Edward's family, my family, won't stop texting. Is it a boy? Tell us it's a girl! We're dying over here!

I get it. Everyone is excited, and the lying eats at me, but Edward and I agreed to wait until March for the official reveal. So we stick to the script. "We don't know yet. We're waiting to be surprised."

That settles them. For now.

The one person I can tell, I haven't had the chance.

Alice is still in Mississippi visiting her family for the holidays, and she won't be back until after the new year. Telling her over FaceTime feels wrong. Alice deserves to hear it in person, where I can grab her hands to keep her from flailing so hard she knocks over a lamp. She'll cry, no question, and then she'll dive straight into planning mode, coming up with ideas faster than I can process them.

Without her here, the silence presses in, thick and lonely.

I drown myself in schoolwork instead. Finals are creeping closer, and my professors seem to think pregnant with twins means please assign more coursework. The dining table is buried under textbooks, notebooks, and highlighters that roll away every time I move too fast. My water bottle sits half-full because I keep forgetting to refill it. But there's no coffee. No coffee. And I miss it like I miss a part of myself. Every time Edward's cup starts brewing, I have to walk away before I do something stupid, like burst into tears.

So I stick to herbal tea and pretend it doesn't taste like disappointment.

I cram. I memorize. I flip through flashcards until the words blur, anything to keep my mind busy. But at night, when Edward finally stumbles through the door, my focus shifts.

He looks wrecked. Every night, he looks wrecked.

His duffel hits the floor with a dull thud as he kicks off his shoes, running a hand through damp, sweat-darkened hair. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, his whole body weighed down with exhaustion.

"Hey," he mutters.

"Rough day?" I ask, already reaching for the ice pack in the freezer.

"Defense was out for blood," he says, rolling his neck with a wince. "Pretty sure they think breaking me at practice means we'll win Sunday."

I give him a knowing look. "And your shoulder?"

He grimaces, rolling it halfheartedly. "Stiff."

"Sit." I point to the couch. He doesn't argue.

A few minutes later, he's sprawled out, a plate of reheated lasagna balanced on his knee, the ice pack pressed to his throwing shoulder. I curl up beside him, one hand resting on his leg, grounding him. Grounding myself.

"You spoil me," he murmurs after a bite, his voice softer now, the sharp edges dulled by exhaustion.

"You're welcome." I lean my head against his arm. "Though I think 'spoil' is just code for 'basic survival care so you don't keel over.'"

He chuckles, low and warm, and something in me unclenches. "Fair enough. Still, thanks."

This is our rhythm. Long days apart. Nights spent in quiet recovery. He runs himself into the ground for a team that demands everything, and I fight against the weight of school, stress, and the secret pressing against my ribs. We meet in the middle, in these stolen hours where the world slows down.

Edward shovels another bite of lasagna into his mouth, his free hand absently adjusting the ice pack on his shoulder. His eyes flick to the TV, where ESPN analysts are throwing around playoff predictions. He chews, swallows, and then points his fork at the screen.

"If we win Sunday, we're one step closer to the Super Bowl."

I raise an eyebrow, pulling my legs up onto the couch. "So confident."

"Not confidence," he says, stabbing at his food again. "Facts. We're in a good spot. The offense is clicking. Defense is holding up. We just need to not screw it up."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

"No," he says quickly. Too quickly.

I tilt my head, watching him. His knee bounces. He's definitely nervous.

"Okay, what's going on? You're acting weird."

"I'm not acting weird."

I narrow my eyes. He avoids looking at me, focusing way too hard on his plate.

"Edward."

He exhales through his nose, then finally mutters, "I just… I don't want to mess with what's working."

I frown. "What does that mean?"

He hesitates. Then, reluctantly, "I did the exact same routine before our last Super Bowl run, and I'm just… keeping it going."

I stare at him. "Are you saying you think you won the Super Bowl because of… routine?"

"Not just routine," he corrects. "Superstition."

"Oh my god." I press my lips together, fighting the grin threatening to take over my face. "Please tell me this is something normal, like wearing lucky socks."

He doesn't answer.

"Edward."

He shifts, clearly regretting bringing this up. "It's not weird."

"It's so weird, isn't it?"

"It's just… little things." He sets his plate aside and finally meets my gaze. "Like, I eat the same pregame meal. I take the same route to the stadium. I tie my cleats the same way. And last time we won? I listened to the same goddamn song on repeat for two months."

That does it. I lose it, laughing so hard I have to clutch my stomach.

"Baby! Two months? The same song?"

He scowls but there's no real heat behind it. "It worked, didn't it?"

"I need to know what song."

"Absolutely not."

"Come on," I plead, still giggling. "I swear I won't make fun of you."

"You absolutely will."

"I absolutely will."

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Fine. It was 'Eye of the Tiger.'"

I gasp, delighted. "You mean to tell me that the great Edward Cullen, star quarterback, was walking around listening to Rocky montage music like it was the gospel?"

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"I do."

"You don't," I say smugly, curling into his side. "You love me. Even though I now know your deep, dark secret about being a superstitious weirdo."

He sighs again, this time dramatically, but his arm comes up around my shoulders, pulling me in.

"You tell anyone about this, and I'm making you listen to it on repeat until the twins are born."

"Joke's on you," I say, grinning. "I already have pregnancy hormones making me emotional. That song might actually make me cry."

Edward exhales, resting his chin against my head. "Great. That's what I need. My fiancée sobbing over Eye of the Tiger."

I freeze.

"Fiancée?" I tilt my head back, blinking up at him. "Since when?"

His whole body tenses. His eyes go wide for half a second before he schools his expression, but it's too late—I saw it. The flicker of panic. The way his throat bobs as he swallows thickly.

"What?" he says, way too casually.

"You just called me your fiancée."

"No, I didn't."

"Edward."

"I meant girlfriend."

"You said fiancée."

He shoves a bite of lasagna into his mouth like it might absorb the conversation. "Slip of the tongue."

I arch a brow, watching the pink creep up his neck. "That's a pretty specific slip."

He shrugs, suddenly very interested in adjusting his ice pack. "People assume, you know? The team, the media. They already think we're engaged, so sometimes I just… roll with it."

I consider that for a moment, watching him fidget. "Huh."

His eyes flick to mine, cautious. "Huh?"

"Well," I say, leaning back against the couch, "let's do it then."

Edward stills. "Do what?"

"Get married."

His fork clatters against his plate. He stares at me like I just suggested we rob a bank. "You're joking."

I shrug. "Not really."

"Bella."

"What?" I gesture vaguely. "We're having twins. Everyone already thinks we're engaged. It's not like we're strangers."

His fingers tighten around his plate, jaw locked. He hesitates, like he's weighing something too heavy to hold before finally sighing, rubbing at his forehead.

"I wanted to do this right." His voice is rough, like the words are scraping their way out.

I blink at him. "Edward—"

"No, just—" He shakes his head, exhales hard. "I've wanted to be with you forever. You know that. And this—" He gestures between us, at the space we've barely had time to fill, at everything that's moving so fucking fast we can't catch our breath. "This isn't how it was supposed to start."

Something in my chest tightens.

"I was gonna ask you out." His fingers twitch on his knee, jaw flexing as he stares at the floor like he's seeing something that never got to happen. "I was gonna take you on a real date. Pick you up, take you to dinner, maybe get you a stupid little bouquet or some shit. I was gonna do it the way I should have—slow, real, something we could actually fucking build on."

He exhales, shaking his head. "And then that night happened." His jaw tightens. "I hadn't seen you in years. I missed you, and you were right there, and we were drinking, and it just—" He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "It just fucking happened."

My stomach flips.

He drags a hand down his face, voice quieter now. "And don't get me wrong, Bruiser. I don't regret touching you. I don't regret a single fucking second of having you like that. But it wasn't how I wanted it to happen. Not the first time. Not our first time."

I swallow hard, feeling the ache in his voice.

"I didn't want it to be messy." He exhales sharply. "I didn't want it to be some drunken, impulsive thing we didn't even talk about the next morning. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to take my time with you. Take you out, take you home, kiss you like I actually had the fucking right to. I wanted to make you mine the way I should have from the start. Not wake up next to you in some half-assed, fucked-up version of what we could have had."

His fingers tighten into fists, frustration rolling off him in waves. "And then you were gone. Just—gone. And I knew. I knew you thought it was a mistake."

My breath catches.

His jaw clenches, something flickering across his face—anger, hurt, regret, maybe all three. "And now we're here, and I still can't get it right."

I grip his hand, shaking my head. "Edward—"

"I just wanted to make one thing special." His voice is rough, almost gutted. "And I can't even do that."

The weight in his voice twists something in my chest. I squeeze his fingers, firm. "It is special."

He exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. He looks exhausted—stretched thin by everything, and here I am, adding more pressure. That's the last thing he needs. I don't want to be another problem, another thing making him feel like he's failing.

So, I try to fix it, my voice light, easy. "I have a dress in my closet that would be perfect for a courthouse wedding. We could go tomorrow."

His eyes snap to mine, brow furrowing.

Oh, crap. Work. He's slammed this week, barely has time to breathe, let alone squeeze in something as big as—God, this. I should've thought of that.

I rush to smooth it over. "Or the next time you're off," I amend quickly, my heart thudding. Before he can argue, the words come spilling out of me, like an offering. "Alice would be our witness. Or one of your teammates. It'd be easy, quick. No pressure."

A solution. Something simple, something that won't weigh on him. I just want to make this easier for him. For us.

Edward's jaw works. His fingers twitch in mine, but he doesn't squeeze back.

And then he exhales, sharp and frustrated, shaking his head. "No."

I blink. "No?"

"No, Bella." His voice is low, controlled, but there's an edge to it. "I'm not gonna go halfway with you. Not with this."

I frown. "It's not halfway—"

"Yes, it is." His grip tightens, firm now, certain. His eyes flick between mine, something hard but desperate there. "I don't want some rushed courthouse wedding just because it's easy. I don't want you in some random dress from your closet with Alice snapping pictures on her phone while some judge pronounces us husband and wife like it's just another errand we had to check off the list."

I swallow hard, forcing myself to say it out loud, to explain why I offered in the first place. "I wasn't trying to make it feel like an obligation, Edward. I just—I didn't want you to have to roll with it. Or pretend. Or lie to make what we're doing look socially acceptable." My voice wavers, but I push through, my heart thudding against my ribs. "We're having twins, and we aren't married. And I know that means something to other people, to the media, to your team. I thought if we just—if we made it simple, you wouldn't have to act like this was some big, romantic—"

His jaw tightens, eyes flashing.

I shake my head, exhaling hard. "I just didn't want you to feel like you had to make it something it's not."

His hands are on me in an instant, gripping my arms, firm but not rough. His frustration is a live wire between us, but so is something else—something deeper, rawer. "You think I'm pretending?" His voice drops, low and rough, like the words are being dragged straight from his chest. "You think I need to fake it? You think I give a single fuck what anyone else thinks?"

I open my mouth, but he doesn't let me answer.

"This isn't about them. This is about you. And me. And the fact that I have wanted this for as long as I can fucking remember, and I am not going to let it be another thing that happens too fast, too messy, too fucking wrong."

I swallow hard, my throat tight, my chest even tighter.

He huffs a breath, rubs a hand down his face, exhales hard. "I already lost the beginning, honey." His voice is quieter now. "I don't want to lose this, too."

God.

"Edward, I… I…" The words tangle in my throat, tripping over themselves. I don't even know what I'm trying to say.

He saves me.

"It's fine." His tone is steady, but there's something underneath it. Something heavy. "We're both stressed, and I don't want to hash up old bullshit."

I shake my head, gripping his wrist tighter, because this—this thing sitting between us, thick and unspoken—isn't bullshit. It's him. It's me. It's everything we were too scared to admit before it was too late.

But he doesn't let me hold on.

"I got am early morning tomorrow." His fingers slip from mine as he leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to my lips. His breath is warm, his voice softer now as he murmurs against my mouth, "Thanks for dinner. It was good."

I don't want him to pull away. My fingers twitch, aching to reach for him again, to keep him here, but he's already moving back, already making his escape.

"I love you," he murmurs.

And then he's gone.

By the time I find my voice, he's already walking toward the bedroom.

The next few days crawl by at a torturous, glacial pace. Edward and I are fine—if "fine" means sweeping things under the rug with the force of a hurricane and pretending like nothing ever happened. Business as usual. No mention of the night before. No acknowledgment of the moment that's been clawing at my brain nonstop.

What drives me absolutely insane is that I had to push the subject. I could've just let it go. So what if he slipped up and called me his fiancée? It was probably just a reflex, a stupid habit from all those PR interviews where he has to project stability, commitment—whatever nonsense they want from him. I could've laughed it off. Let it die. Maybe even waited until the season was over to bring it up like a normal, rational human being.

But no. I had to be me.

I groan, slamming the bathroom cabinet shut so hard it rattles.

"Ugh," I glare at my own reflection, frustration simmering under my skin. "You are so annoying."

I point at myself like I'm giving a lecture. "Seriously, what is wrong with you? Why do you have to poke the bear? Why can't you just—"

The doorbell rings, cutting off my self-inflicted scolding. I freeze, my stomach dropping.

Who the heck is that?

Edward is at practice until two and he never mentioned that anyone was coming over.

Hastily, I throw on sweats and a sweatshirt, barely shoving my arms through the sleeves before I rush downstairs.

I creep up to the door, my pulse a steady thud in my ears. The peephole distorts everything, but not enough to hide the fact that the guy standing outside is ridiculously attractive. Late twenties, maybe thirties. Thick, semi-curly blonde hair peeks out from under his hat.

A cowboy hat. In Seattle.

His skin is too tan for this time of year, too tan for this city, like he belongs somewhere sun-bleached and sprawling, not trapped under endless gray skies. And his eyes—wow. Even through the warped glass, they're so blue they nearly stop my breath. Worse, they're locked onto mine.

I jerk back, heart hammering even harder now.

Dude, this ridiculous, there's no way he can see me. I need to stop being a coward.

Besides, he's too clean to be dangerous—right? Too put-together, too polished. The neatly trimmed stubble, the well-fitted denim jacket, the way his boots are worn just enough to look lived-in but not rough. Not a drifter. Not some creep lurking in the hallway.

Yeah, right. That's not going to tell me whether or not this guy is a murderous maniac.

I've watched enough true crime to know that danger doesn't always look the part. Sometimes, it smiles at you through a peephole.

My fingers curl tighter around the edge of the door. My breath shallow as I steel as I lean in, pressing my mouth close to the thick iron door, my voice sharp and firm.

"Who is it?"

I doubt he hears me clearly, but he steps in, his head tilting slightly toward the door as he responds.

"Hello, ma'am," he calls out, voice deep and slow, dripping with a heavy Texan accent. "I'm Jasper. Edward's agent."

A vague memory stirs, flickering at the edges of my mind.

Edward mentioned something a few weeks ago—something about a guy named Jazz coming into town. I remember the way he said it offhandedly, like it wasn't important, just another thing in the never-ending list of football-related obligations he barely had time for. I was buried in finals at the time, drowning in notes and herbal tea, and not really listening as he rattled off his schedule.

I didn't ask questions. Didn't think much of it.

And he definitely never said anything about Jazz being his agent.

I take a steadying breath and unlock the door, pulling it open with what I hope passes for a casual smile. My fingers tighten around the doorknob for half a second longer than necessary, nerves buzzing under my skin.

"Hi, I'm sorry." My voice is steady, at least. I extend my hand. "I'm Bella."

"Nice to finally meet you, ma'am." Jasper grips it firmly but not too tight, his shake confident, practiced. There's a warmth to his expression, polite but assessing, like he's cataloging every detail of me in seconds. "Edward talks awful lot about you."

I huff a soft laugh, shifting on my feet. "Hopefully, all good things."

Jasper's smile doesn't falter. "Nothing but good things."

I swallow down whatever that stirs up and step back, pulling the door wider. "Please, come in."

"Thank you, ma'am."

As he steps inside, he removes his hat—a small, instinctive gesture, the kind that belongs to someone raised on good manners. I close the door behind him, shifting on my feet, suddenly hyperaware of myself. My hands twitch at the hem of my sweatshirt, tugging it down over my stomach, smoothing fabric that won't stay flat.

I clear my throat. "Um. What can I do for you? Edward isn't home."

Jasper's brows lift slightly, the first real sign of emotion cracking through his calm demeanor. "Oh, I just got off the phone with him. He said he would be."

I shift my weight, still fidgeting with the hem of my sweatshirt. "Well, would you like something to drink? You're more than welcome to sit down and wait."

Jasper's face lights up with easy gratitude, his posture relaxing just a bit. "That'd be real nice, thank you."

He steps further inside, taking in the space with quiet interest before settling onto the couch. There's something effortlessly polite about him, the kind of person who makes themselves at home without ever overstepping.

I pull open the fridge, staring at the shelves like the answer to all of this might be hidden between the leftover takeout and half-empty condiment bottles. What do you even offer someone like him?

"Uh, I've got Coke… or a beer?" I call over my shoulder.

Jasper chuckles, the sound light and easy. "Water'll be just fine, ma'am."

I grab a bottle and twist off the cap before walking it over to him. He takes it with a polite nod, settling deeper into the couch like he's got all the time in the world. Meanwhile, my nerves are coiling tighter by the second.

I sit across from him, hands clasped in my lap, my foot bouncing slightly. "So… you're Edward's agent?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

"That I am."

"You've been his agent for long?"

"Since before he was drafted."

I try to keep my expression polite, not interrogative, but curiosity burns too hot in my chest to ignore. I hesitate for a second, then just go for it.

"I'm sorry if I'm being too blunt, but how does a guy like you"—I cringe mid-sentence, realizing how bad that sounds—"I mean, uh, how'd you end up being Edward's agent? Aren't you, like… twenty-six? Twenty-eight?"

Jasper's lips twitch before he lets out a quiet laugh. A hint of color rises to his cheeks, which is not the reaction I was expecting.

"I'm ten years north of that," he says, amused.

I gape at him, completely stunned. "Shut up!" The words slip out before I can stop them.

Jasper bursts into laughter, shaking his head as if he's heard this exact reaction a thousand times before. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

My face heats up with embarrassment. I clear my throat, desperate to redirect the conversation before I dig myself into an even deeper hole.

"Anyway…" I wave a hand, trying to sound casual. "So, how did you meet Edward?"

Jasper leans back in his chair, his expression turning thoughtful. "Honestly? He was already on my radar before I even met him. There was a lot of buzz in my office about this kid from Washington—big talent, crazy potential. So, I started watching his college games."

I nod, leaning in. That tracks. Edward was a beast on the field even back then.

"The more I watched, the more I saw it. He had something special—raw talent, insane work ethic. But getting him to actually accept representation?" Jasper shakes his head, chuckling. "That took some finessing."

I tilt my head. "Finessing?"

Jasper smirks, his blue eyes flashing with something knowing. "Yeah. Let's just say Edward wasn't exactly eager to trust anyone with his career. I had to get creative."

I cross my arms, intrigued now. "Oh, you have to tell me how that went down."

"Well, I knew from the start that it wasn't going to be easy. Edward's got a radar for people who are in it for the wrong reasons. He's—"

"Suspicious?" I offer.

He chuckles. "I was going to say selective, but sure, suspicious works. When I first reached out, he ignored me completely. Wouldn't take my calls, didn't answer my emails. He even declined a meeting I flew across the country to have with him."

I raise my brows. "Oof. That's brutal."

"Oh, it got worse," Jasper says, grinning. "I was stubborn, though. I knew I was the right guy to represent him, and I wasn't about to let some cold shoulder treatment chase me off."

Something about the way he says it makes me think of Edward's walls—how high they are, how fortified. It must've taken something big to break through them.

"So what did you do?"

Jasper's smirk deepens. "I had to prove I wasn't just another agent looking for a quick payday. I spent weeks studying his game, his habits, his potential. Then, I showed up at one of his practices—without an invitation."

My eyes widen. "You just… showed up?"

"Yup," he says, popping the 'p.' "I figured if he wasn't going to take my calls, I'd make it impossible for him to ignore me."

I can't help but laugh. "That sounds like it could've backfired spectacularly."

"Oh, it almost did," he admits. "He was pissed at first. But then I told him, straight up, that I wasn't there to sell him a dream—he already had that part handled. I was there because I understood his goals and could help him navigate everything that comes with success."

I lean in, hanging on to every word. "And that worked?"

Jasper nods. "Eventually, yeah. Took a couple more conversations, a little more convincing, but once he realized I wasn't full of it, he gave me a shot."

I shake my head, impressed. "Man. That's… actually really cool."

He chuckles. "I like to think so."

I study him for a moment, noting the way he speaks about Edward—not like a client, but like someone he genuinely respects. That tells me everything I need to know.

"You're good at this," I say, before I can stop myself.

Jasper's grin softens. "Thanks, Bella."

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. "The only thing I know about sports agents is what I've seen in Jerry Maguire."

Jasper grins, nodding as he takes another sip of water. "You're not too far off. The concept's the same. Negotiations, contracts, making sure my guys get what they deserve." He leans back, draping his arm along the couch. "Edward's not my only client, but he's my best one."

His best one. My stomach tightens.

"Feels like I give him one-on-one treatment most days," Jasper adds with a chuckle. "Especially now, with him considering a move and all."

I freeze. Just for a second.

A move?

I keep my face smooth, like this is old news, like Edward and I have already talked this through a dozen times. But my fingers twitch against my lap, nails pressing into the fabric of my jeans. "Yeah, he's been weighing his options."

Jasper doesn't notice the shift. He just keeps talking, relaxed, sipping from his bottle of water like he hasn't just sent my brain spiraling.

"Tampa's got a solid offer on the table," he says casually. "They're hungry for a QB, and they're willing to build around him. Plus, they've loosened up on their whole 'no WAGs at practice' rule, which Edward actually gives a shit about." He smirks, like it's some inside joke, like it's not cracking something wide open inside me.

No WAG rule.

The Seahawks have been strict—no wives, no girlfriends, no distractions. And worse? No overnight stays before games. No late-night touches, no waking up together, no him.

My fingers curl against my thigh. I keep my voice even. "And that's what he's leaning toward? Tampa?"

Jasper shrugs. "He likes the freedom. Weather's good, taxes are better, and they're letting him call more of the shots. The coach is on board with whatever keeps him happy. Hell, they might as well let him design the playbook while they're at it."

Edward calling the shots. Edward happy. Edward somewhere else.

But then— it clicks.

He could've stayed. Could've dealt with the bullshit if it was just about football. But this? This is about us.

I grip my knee, trying to focus, trying to act like I'm not unraveling at the edges. "Anyone else in the running?"

Jasper tips his head, considering. "Vegas is throwing money at him, but he's not sold. New England's interested, but they'd put him on a leash, and you know how well that'd go." He smirks. "Edward needs space. He needs to be able to—"

"Control everything," I finish for him, my voice barely above a whisper.

Jasper exhales sharply, blinking like something just slotted into place.

For the first time, he's really thinking about what he's saying.

Jasper leans back, eyes narrowing like he's replaying months of conversations, fitting pieces together that never quite clicked.

"You know," he muses, voice slower now, more deliberate, "I never really put it together before, but… damn." He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he's pissed at himself. "This whole thing with Tampa. It's not just about football, is it?"

My whole body tenses, but I don't move. Don't react. Still, Jasper catches it—a flicker of something unguarded. His jaw tightens, then he lets out a low laugh, like he's irritated with himself for not seeing it sooner.

"Jesus," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "Edward's been talking about needing a change—new challenge, fresh start, all that bullshit—but I've heard him argue with his coach more in the last couple of months than in the last few years combined. And it's always about that damn WAG rule."

The air in the room turns heavy, pressing against my ribs.

Jasper shakes his head, gaze sharpening. "I kept thinking he just wanted more control, like he was sick of being treated like a kid who needed a curfew. But that's not it, is it?" His eyes flick to mine, cutting straight through me. "It's about you."

I force a half-shrug. "He hasn't said that."

Jasper scoffs. "He wouldn't. Not directly. You know how he is—everything's gotta be some tactical, unemotional decision. But the guy has been losing his shit over this. If it were just about freedom, he'd be bitching about play-calling or front-office politics. But no, it's this. The WAG rule. The overnights. His coach treating his personal life like it's some kind of liability."

I swallow hard, but Jasper isn't done.

"And now he's leaving." His voice dips, like he's only just realizing the weight of it. "Man, I really thought he just wanted out because of football. But now? Now it's so goddamn obvious."

Something shifts in his expression—something sure, something final—as he delivers the last blow.

"He's leaving because he can't go another season waking up alone before a game."

The words slam into me, rip through me like a live wire.

He can't go another season waking up alone.

A sharp heat floods my chest, something twisting deep and primal because he never said it. Never sat me down, never spelled it out. But here it is. The truth. Laid out in Jasper's voice, in Edward's actions.

Jasper watches me, his smirk curling as he shakes his head, still processing it.

"He's really doing this for you."

The breath I let out is slow, controlled, but something dangerously close to a smile tugs at my lips.

Tampa means freedom. Tampa means no more distance.

Tampa means us.

Thanks for reading.