Thank you for being here! xoxo

Don't forget character growth is a thing for a reason! Lolol wouldn't be interesting (at least, to me) and there wouldn't be a story if they were perfect from the start. ;)

Also, check out "Blank Space" by fyrebyrd if you want some delicious angst!

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seven
sparks fly
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"So, you're a surgeon?" I ask as we wait for the elevator to arrive in the lobby of Edward's building.

He shoots a sidelong glance my way. "How do you know my profession?"

"I overheard you telling that Grey's Anatomy fan when they questioned you helping me."

I'm concussed, not deaf, I think.

But then I realize my mistake.

He merely said he was a doctor but didn't specify what kind.

"You said you worked at Virginia Mason before you gave me your wallet," I add, inwardly panicking as I scramble to correct this slip-up. "Or were you lying? Should I be worried? Are you a murderer?" My tone is teasing but there's a bite there that I'm not sure he feels.

"Yeah, I said I work there. But a surgeon was an oddly specific guess. Should I be worried?" he echoes my sentiment, then adds his own revision with: "Are you a stalker?"

If only he knew.

"It was an educated guess on my part because you look like a surgeon," I insist.

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Oh, I know that all too well," I remark.

A hint of a smile appears on his lips.

I think he likes this little back-and-forth thing we've got going on.

The elevator doors open, and after a few people file out of it, Edward and I step on.

"I wasn't lying—I'm a surgeon," he says once we're alone, pressing the button for the 22nd floor. "But that might change now if my hand is injured."

I'm not expecting the slightly guilty conscience that comes with hearing that, so I try to ignore it.

"Really?" I ask. "Did saving me potentially ruin your career?" If it did, that might suffice for ruining his life and I can leave.

He seems unconcerned. "Nah, I'm sure it will be fine."

The elevator stops on his floor and with his good arm, he gestures for me to exit first. He follows and we fall into step together.

"What kind of surgeon are you?" I ask as we walk, waiting for his cue that we've made it to his door.

"I specialize in cardiothoracic surgery."

"What's that?" I ask as if I don't already know what he does and what his patients think about him, Mr. 4.8 out of 5-star rating.

"I operate on hearts."

"Yikes."

He cracks a smile. "Yikes?"

"What? Do people usually fawn over your profession?"

"Actually, yes. I'm told it's one of the most fawnable careers." He's joking. The twitch of his lips gives him away. "I've also not heard anyone use the word yikes in a long time."

"Well, given your profession, that's probably a good thing," I quip, and he laughs deeply which is… oddly satisfying. "It just seems intense. I couldn't do it. Be around all of that… blood."

"Yeah. It takes some getting used to."

"Do you like it?" I ask.

Does he like playing God?

Or maybe he has a hero complex. That would explain why I'm here, at his place, and why he's overly willing to help me.

He frowns, his pace slowing. "Do I like being around blood?"

"No." I force a chuckle. "Do you like your job?"

He looks caught off guard for a moment. Like no one has ever asked if he likes his career.

"It pays the bills," he says, fully stopping before a door and inserting a key.

He waits for me to walk in and there's a split second where I consider this is a bad idea.

Potentially putting myself in danger—for what?

With a deep breath, I decide now is not the time to adjust any plans.

Against my better judgment, I walk in.

"Can I take off my shoes?" I ask once we're inside. Not only are they uncomfortable, but removing them will make it easier to run out of here if need be.

"Make yourself at home," he says.

Ha. Not likely.

I step out of my heels and leave them by the door.

"I'm gonna go grab a few things so I can check you out," Edward tells me. "Do you want or need anything?"

Yeah, your alibi for the night of October 15, 2004, for starters.

"Well, I guess I already had my coffee for the day," I say, pointedly glancing down at my damp camisole. "So, I'll just take some water, please."

His eyes spark. "Of course. Do you want…" His gaze automatically darts toward my top. "I can get you a clean shirt."

I'm not about to turn down anything he offers me, so I say, "Sure, that'd be great. Thanks."

When he disappears, I leisurely walk around and take a mental inventory of his place.

He's not one for knick-knacks.

No personal touches.

It's cold, yet stylish.

My professional opinion of this aesthetic is cocky, terminal bachelor.

I hear his footsteps approaching and sit on the pristine white couch.

His suit jacket is off, and a stethoscope hangs around his neck. There's a bottle of water and a T-shirt in his right hand, and a small first-aid kit in the crook of his arm, nestled against his chest because he's still avoiding using his left hand.

He sets everything on the coffee table and offers me the water. I sip from the bottle and he grabs a flashlight the size of a pen out of his pocket and sits beside me.

My stomach clenches, maybe from nerves, and the waning adrenaline allows me to feel how my right arm throbs.

I remove my blazer and inspect my elbow. It's scraped and bloody.

Like the attentive hero he is, he works quietly with one hand to clean it up. When he swipes an alcohol pad against my skin, it stings but I don't flinch.

He brings his face closer to my elbow and blows on it anyway.

I'm about to tell him he doesn't have to do that, but then he gently places a bandage on my wound.

"Thanks," I mumble.

"I mean, I can't have you bleeding all over my white couch," he jokes, but his voice is thick and a little strained. It makes me regard him more closely, and I catch the way his throat bobs with a satisfying swallow.

I think I make him nervous.

It encourages me.

So I take off my camisole and grab the shirt he gave me.

He looks momentarily confused, maybe even panicked as he politely averts his gaze to avoid seeing me in my lacy bra.

"Uh." He pauses. "I'll give you some privacy."

"It's fine," I say nonchalantly, slipping the soft cotton of his shirt over my head. "You're a doctor. I'm sure you've seen worse."

Clearing his throat, he sits closer than before once I'm covered, wordlessly shining a light in my eyes. I follow it until my gaze finds something more interesting to focus on—his face.

A moth to the flame.

He was never hard on the eyes. I can admit that. Not that I had a crush at ten, but it's just something you notice about certain people when they have that thing.

And yeah. He still has it. But his boyish charm has evolved into something manlier and rugged.

Sharp jaw. Scruffed cheeks. Slightly crooked nose that somehow makes his face more handsome.

It's the face of a man who can get away with anything.

Like murder.

He notices my staring and locks eyes with me, pausing his exam.

It feels charged between us.

It's hostility from me.

Attraction from him, maybe.

His eyes further search my face and I avert my gaze, worrying he'll recognize me if he stares too closely.

But he couldn't—could he?

I'm about to stand and say I need to use the bathroom just to create more distance between us when he says, "I need to listen to your heart."

"Okay."

He sticks the stethoscope tips in his ears and pauses. "I'm gonna go under your shirt. Is that okay?"

The chance to throw him off kilter again is too tempting.

"Is it easier if I just take it off?" I ask.

"Um. That's fine." I reach for the hem, and he says, "No. I mean, it's fine, you can leave it on."

I fight a smile. "Oh, okay. Then do your thing."

After a brief pause, he slips his hand underneath the white shirt I'm wearing. His touch barely skims up my stomach until it reaches my chest, above my breast. And then cold metal makes me gasp.

He looks charmingly apologetic. "Sorry. I should've warned you."

"It's fine. Worse things have happened to me before."

I say it with intent that he obviously can't decipher. Curiosity flashes on his face but he doesn't push. With pursed lips, he listens, moving the metal piece around my chest.

"Your heart sounds good. Strong. Steady."

I want to remark on how it's broken because of his actions.

Instead of being emo, I flirt. Because duh—his hand is under my shirt.

"If it's racing, it's because you make me nervous," I boldly say.

It's not a lie.

I am nervous.

About getting caught.

He bites back a shy, slightly smug smile and removes the stethoscope without copping a feel because he's a professional, I guess.

"How does your head feel?" he asks.

"A little achy, but okay," I admit.

"And your neck?"

I turn my head from side to side. "A little tender."

"May I?" he asks, and for some reason, I nod even though I'm not sure what he's asking to do.

He brings his right hand to the side of my neck and gently presses his fingers into my skin feeling for… I don't know what.

"Does this hurt?" he asks, eyes locked on mine, looking for a reaction.

"No."

He checks the other side and raises his brows, wordlessly asking the same question. I shake my head again. His hand curves around the back of my neck, still gently pressing and feeling.

"What about this? Any pain?"

"No," I say again, a little more breathless this time. But it's definitely on purpose. Not because his touch is affecting me.

"I just wanna check one more thing," he tells me, as his hand moves to the back of my head, tangling in my hair. He frowns when he touches an area that makes me wince. "There's a slight bump here," he tells me, rubbing a soothing circle over the tender spot before pulling away. "I'm sure you'll be sore for the next week or so."

"Great. Love that for me," I mumble, laughing softly. "Guess it beats the alternative, though. I could be dead."

He doesn't react to my morbid joke.

"Do you have someone to look after you? A roommate?" he asks, then after his eyes not-so-discreetly check my left hand, he adds: "Boyfriend?"

He's fishing.

Which is good. It means he's potentially interested.

"No boyfriend," I say, but hearing this doesn't make him react. "I do have a roommate who works nights, so he should be home right now. Please don't worry about me. I'm fine."

"In good conscience, I can't not stress that you need to go get a CT scan," he urges. "At least, do it for my peace of mind."

"Sure, that's fine," I say. "I'll go. I don't want your injured hand to be in vain."

He looks relieved. "I'd be happy to offer you a ride since I'm going to the hospital anyway."

Like I'd get in a fucking car with him. The last time Rosalie did that she was never seen again. I also can't risk going to the same hospital as him because what if he somehow learns my name? I doubt he remembers Rosalie's kid cousin Isa, but potentially learning my adoptive last name Hale might spark some, uh… curiosity.

"I work a couple of blocks away, so I need to go back there first to get my bag and whatnot," I say honestly, leaving a little breadcrumb in case he's interested in finding me at some point. "My car's there, too."

"I wouldn't drive if you can avoid it. Have someone else take you to the hospital."

"I will."

My plan appeases him, and he nods. "I just need to change, so—"

"I'll wait," I quickly say, unsure if it's an option. "I'm not sure I'll remember my way out of here."

"Right. I'll just be a minute."

Clearing his throat, he stands and disappears down the hallway.

I wait until he's out of view and hear a door close, then tiptoe in the same direction he just went. There are four doors off the hallway. Two of them are closed, and I'm unsure which one he just went into, so I slink toward the open ones.

I pass by a bathroom, then enter what must be his home office. There's a large desk with a computer, and a wall lined with built-in bookshelves. I know I won't have time to snoop, so I take a few pictures of his desk and the shelves with my phone.

Either he's fast or my perception of time is thwarted because what seems like a minute or so later, I hear his bedroom door opening.

Fuck.

Quickly, I move to stand by the window, admiring the view of mountains and the Sound in the distance.

I feel his presence before I see him.

"What are you doing in here?" he asks, and I turn to find him in the doorway in an entirely new suit. This one is navy, and he's not wearing a tie with his crisp white shirt.

"Sorry, I…" Gesturing toward the window, I say, "Nice view."

His face is unreadable as he glances around the space like he's making sure everything is untouched.

"Were you looking for the bathroom? Because you passed it on the way in here," he replies.

"Right." I laugh. "Must be the concussion."

I move toward him to exit and for a brief moment, he doesn't move.

Is this it?

Is this when he kills me?

I'm only noticing how large he is now. With my heels off, he's a good eight or nine inches taller than I am. He's broad, too. Built.

He could overpower me if he wanted.

I stay calm, despite my nerves.

My eyes dart past his shoulder, wordlessly asking him to move.

He does, and I rush into the bathroom, locking the door.

I don't pee, but flush the toilet anyway and wash my shaking hands.

When I'm back in the living room, he has my blazer, camisole, and shoes gathered on the coffee table.

He just watches as I step into my heels.

"I promise to return your shirt," I say, glancing down at it. It's large and falls just below my ass, and gives me the perfect excuse to see him again.

But he says, "Don't worry about that. I don't need it back."

With nothing else to say, we exit his condo and ride down the elevator in silence.

Once we're on the sidewalk, we linger.

"I guess this is goodbye," I say, stalling. Some people pass by us. "I wonder if this looks like I'm doing a walk of shame," I joke.

He looks confused. "Walk of—oh." He breathes out a laugh, and his cheeks pink a bit. "Nothing shameful here."

"Yeah, well. Thanks for not letting me die."

I mean it. It's the least he could do.

He shrugs. "Right place, right time."

I don't let him know fate had nothing to do with us running into each other.

That was all me.

"I wanted to ask…" he starts to say, appearing apprehensive.

"For my number?"

He smiles, keeping intense eye contact. "Well, no. I mean… that's not what I was going to ask." Embarrassment stings my cheeks for appearing so eager. "Why were you waving at me earlier?"

I buy myself time. "What?"

"When you stepped onto the road, you yelled hey and waved at me."

I shrug. "I thought you were someone else, but I guess I was wrong."

He hums, accepting this just as a vehicle pulls up beside us.

"I arranged a car for you when I changed clothes," he says. "You didn't seem eager for me to help, but I didn't love the idea of you walking back to work."

"You didn't have to do that. But… thanks," I reluctantly say, but it will be nice to not walk in these fucking shoes anymore.

Edward smiles. He must be feeling like a good little samaritan today.

He opens the back door for me and I slide in.

Head ducked inside, he says, "Take care of yourself, Bella."

His words are warm.

"You too," I reply before he shuts my door.

He stays on the sidewalk, watching as the car pulls away, and I can't shake the feeling that even though I just spent the last half hour with him, I know even less about Edward Cullen than before.