Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer

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Bound

Restraint

It's November eleventh.

Edward stares at his reflection in the mirror, fingers lightly tracing the edge of the sink. The boy looking back at him is familiar yet different tonight—his copperish blond hair is a little more tousled than usual, his green eyes darker beneath the dim bathroom light. His freckles, faint but persistent, dust the bridge of his nose and the high points of his cheeks. His features are delicate but unmistakably masculine, soft yet defined in a way that gives him an almost ethereal look.

He's wearing the outfit Alice picked out for him—black jeans that fit just right, a deep green shirt that makes his irises stand out. He looks put together, ready for the party. But none of that matters. Because his eyes—his eyes tell the truth

He looks sad. Confused.

Edward exhales slowly, gripping the edge of the counter. He should be excited. He's turning sixteen. The house across the street is filled with people, music, laughter—his family and friends celebrating his birthday alongside Jasper's.

What an ironic coincidence that they were born on the same date, only two years apart. So much in common, yet so different.

Jasper Elijah Whitlock Hale.

Edward swallows hard at the name. He doesn't need the mirror to see him. Jasper is burned into his mind—his tall, lean frame, golden-dark blond hair, light amber eyes that catch the light like wildfire. The sharp angles of his jaw, the smooth bow of his lips, the way his dimples flash when he smirks. Everything about Jasper is striking, magnetic, impossible to ignore.

Jasper's family had moved into the house across the street three years ago—that's how Edward met Rosalie, how they became best friends almost instantly. Jasper arrived two years later. Edward had known him for a year—but he hadn't really known him until four months ago. Not until Jasper had cornered him after that football game, eyes burning, voice low, almost angry—"I need you to stop looking at me like that, Cullen." Not until Jasper had kissed him for the first time—desperate, demanding, like he needed to make Edward understand exactly what he was provoking.

That night, everything changed.

Their secret fling had been intense, all-consuming. Jasper had made it clear from the beginning that they weren't dating. "No strings," he had murmured, tracing a finger down Edward's arm, leaving heat in its wake. "Don't get attached."

And Edward had agreed.

But two days ago, Jasper ended it. Just like that. No explanation. Just a cold, distant—"We're done."

Edward doesn't understand.

Jasper wants him. He knows Jasper wants him. He's seen it—in the way Jasper looks at him, in the way his control slips when they're alone. So why—why has he walked away? And why does it hurt this much when Edward knew from the start this was never supposed to get real?

A soft knock on the door pulls him from his thoughts.

"Eddy?" Alice's voice is gentle, careful. "Are you ready?"

Edward forces a breath and turns to the door. "Yeah. Coming."

The door creaks open, and Alice steps inside, her reddish-brown pixie cut framing sharp, knowing hazel eyes. She scans him quickly—assessing, understanding.

"You okay?"

Edward scoffs, looking away. "Sure."

Alice crosses her arms. "You don't look okay."

Edward shakes his head. "I'm fine, Allie."

She doesn't buy it, of course. Alice always sees right through him.

"It's Jasper, isn't it?" she says softly.

Edward doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.

Alice sighs, stepping closer. "I know it hurts."

"It shouldn't." His voice is quiet, almost bitter. "We weren't even together."

Alice tilts her head. "Doesn't mean you didn't care."

Edward exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "He just—he just ended it. No reason, no nothing. Like it never happened."

Alice hesitates, then asks, "You think it's because of Rosalie?"

Edward clenches his jaw. "Maybe."

They both know Rosalie is in love with Edward. She's never said it outright, but it's obvious—to him, to Alice, probably even to her brother. And Jasper… Jasper cares about his sister. Maybe enough to sacrifice whatever he and Edward had.

"I hate this," Edward mutters.

Alice watches him carefully. Then, after a pause, she says, "Mom and Dad would still love you, you know."

Edward stiffens. He knows what she means.

"If they found out," Alice continues, "about you… about Jasper—"

"Don't." Edward cuts her off quickly. He shakes his head, swallowing against the knot in his throat. "You don't know that."

Alice's voice is firm. "I do."

Edward meets her eyes, his own filled with uncertainty. "They love us, Allie, but we don't know how they'd react to this."

Alice exhales, but she doesn't push. Instead, she reaches out, gently squeezing his arm.

"And no one in the Hale family can ever know," Edward adds, voice dropping lower. "Jasper's father sent him to military school just for coming out. If they knew he…" He swallows hard, the words catching. "He told them it was a phase. That he's over it. That's the only reason he was allowed to come back home."

Alice's lips press together, her expression shadowed with sadness. "But he's not over it."

Edward shakes his head. "No. He's not."

And neither is Edward.

Alice leans against the sink, watching Edward carefully. "You know… Jasper's been weird all week," she says casually, like she's testing his reaction.

Edward's head snaps up. "What do you mean?"

Alice shrugs. "Just… off. Moody. Quieter than usual. And the last two days? Even worse."

Edward's pulse kicks up. That was when Jasper ended things.

Maybe—maybe this wasn't final. Maybe Jasper regretted it.

Maybe tonight, things could go back to how they were.

Alice catches the flicker of hope in his eyes and exhales. "Just… don't get in too deep, Eddy. I like Jasper—he's a good guy, he's my friend—but you know he's not the relationship type."

Edward straightens, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I don't need you to protect me, Alice."

Alice tilts her head, eyes steady. "That's not up to you. You're my little brother."

Edward presses his lips together and says nothing.

Alice gives him a look and nods toward the door. "Come on. Mom and Dad are waiting."

Edward follows her downstairs, stepping out onto the front porch where their parents stand at the front of the house, waiting.

And they aren't alone.

Edward stops short. "Wait—"

His chest tightens, but this time, it's not nerves or heartbreak—it's surprise.

Emm.

His big brother stands beside their parents, grinning like he never left, his broad, towering frame—easily six-five—relaxed against a sleek black Jeep Wrangler parked in the driveway. The evening light casts a glow over his reddish-brown hair, and his light hazel eyes—hinting more toward green— gleam with familiar mischief.

Edward blinks, momentarily forgetting everything else. "You're here?"

Emmett chuckles, pushing off the Jeep. "Of course, I'm here. You think I'd miss my little brother's sweet sixteen?"

Warmth spreads through Edward's chest, pushing away everything else—the anguish, the lingering weight of things he doesn't want to think about. He strides forward without hesitation and wraps his arms around his brother in a tight hug.

Emmett huffs out a surprised laugh but hugs him back just as firmly, squeezing his shoulder before pulling away. "Damn, missed me that much, huh?"

Edward just grins. It's been months since Emmett's been home, buried in his political science program at Yale. Having him here now, in this moment, feels right. It feels like home.

"I didn't know you were coming."

Emmett smirks. "That's because it's a surprise, genius."

Before he can respond, a warm hand smooths through his hair. Esme. His mother's touch is as soft as her voice. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

He barely has time to turn before she's pulling him into a hug, her arms wrapping securely around him. Edward exhales, sinking into the familiar comfort of her embrace. She smells like vanilla and the faintest trace of lavender, like every warm memory of childhood wrapped up in the safest place in the world. She's all softness—her features delicate, her reddish-brown hair framing a face full of quiet warmth. Edward is the only one of her children who didn't take after her, except for the copperish undertone in his blond hair, a faint echo of her coloring, and the delicacy of his facial features.

Carlisle is next. His father isn't the overly affectionate type, but when he claps a firm hand on Edward's back before pulling him into a brief but strong hug, Edward feels the depth of his unspoken love. There's a quiet strength to him—tall, just over six foot three, with sharp features that mirror Edward's own. His blond hair and blue eyes set him apart from the rest of the family, a mark of his Canadian heritage. Edward has seen old photos of him in his youth, and the resemblance is undeniable. He and Emmett got their height from him, though Emmett surpassed them both.

Carlisle clears his throat and holds up a set of keys. "Speaking of surprises… happy birthday, son."

Edward blinks. His eyes flick to the keys. Then back to the Jeep.

No. No way.

His breath catches. "You're kidding."

Esme's eyes shine with warmth as she gently tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear. "You're sixteen now, sweetheart."

Alice steps forward, arms crossed, lips curved in amusement. "Well, guess I'm riding with you now. My car just lost all its appeal."

Edward chuckles, hearing his parents and brother do the same. He barely realizes he's stepped forward until his fingers close around the cool metal of the keys—like he might wake up any second and find out this is just a dream. "This is… this is mine?"

"Sure is," Emmett confirms with a knowing grin. "And I have a little something extra."

Edward barely has time to process the Jeep before Emmett hands him an envelope.

He opens it, scanning the papers inside—and freezes.

No way.

His breath stumbles.

"Wait—" His eyes snap up. "This is—"

"Thailand," Emmett says, grin widening. "One week, just like you wanted."

Edward's throat tightens. His dream trip. The one he's talked about forever.

He glances at Emmett. "You're coming with me?"

Emmett slings an arm around his shoulders. "Duh. You think Mom and Dad would let their baby fly halfway across the world alone?"

Edward lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "This is insane."

Emmett squeezes his shoulder. "Happy birthday, little bro. We leave tomorrow, so after the party, pack your stuff."

Edward's chest aches in the best way. His family loves him. They really love him.

And that makes the fear all the worse.

Because what if Alice is wrong? What if they wouldn't love him like this?

He shoves the thought down and forces a smile. "This is amazing. Thank you, all of you."

Esme hugs him. Carlisle pats his back. Alice smirks. Emmett ruffles his hair.

Then Alice nudges him. "Come on, birthday boy. We've got another party to get to."

Edward exhales, slipping the keys into his pocket.

Time to face Jasper.

As they cross the street toward the Whitlock-Hale house, their shoes tapping lightly against the pavement, Edward can't shake the feeling that tonight will change everything.

One way or another.

Music drifts from the backyard, blending with the occasional bursts of laughter and conversation. The cool autumn air drifts through the yard, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and something sweet—maybe cake.

Carlisle and Esme lead the way up the porch steps, Esme's arm linked through Carlisle's as they disappear inside. Alice follows after them, her pixie-cut hair bouncing slightly with each step, and Emmett trails beside her, laughing at something she says.

Edward moves to follow—then stops.

Because that's when he sees him.

Standing just off to the side, half in the porch light, half in shadow.

Edward's breath catches.

Jasper looks… stunning. He always does, but tonight—tonight, it feels different.

His black Henley fits him perfectly, emphasizing his lean, athletic build. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, exposing his forearms—strong, yet elegant, just like the rest of him. His golden-dark blond hair is tousled like he just ran a hand through it, a contrast to the careful control in his stance. And his face—his sharp jaw, the perfect angles of his cheekbones—looks carved from stone.

Edward knows he should be mad at Jasper. He is mad. But God, he looks so good. It's unfair.

Jasper holds himself with that effortless confidence, but there's something off—a tension in his shoulders, a tightness to his jaw.

But it's his eyes that stop Edward cold.

Those intense, expressive golden, luminous eyes—fixed directly on him. Unreadable.

Edward barely breathes.

For a moment, everything else fades—the party, the house, the fact that he should still be angry at Jasper for walking away two days ago. Because right now, Jasper is looking at him. Really looking.

Edward doesn't move. Neither does Jasper.

For a moment, it's just them.

Edward's stomach twists. There's something in that look—something unspoken, something that makes his heart pound. And then—

Then Jasper shifts. Takes a step forward.

Edward's heart stutters. Is he—?

Hope flickers, wild and dangerous. Maybe Jasper regrets ending things. Maybe—

"Happy birthday, E!"

Rosalie's voice breaks the moment.

Before Edward can react, she throws her arms around him, bright blond curls brushing his face. She presses a quick kiss to his cheek. "Took you long enough! I was about to come drag you over myself."

He blinks, still dazed, but hugs her back on instinct.

Over her shoulder, he catches a glimpse of Jasper.

Jasper's entire stance has changed. His shoulders are rigid, his expression flickering for the briefest second before his face goes blank—cold, distant.

Then, without a word, he turns and disappears toward the backyard.

Edward's stomach twists.

"Hey." Rosalie nudges his ribs. "You good?"

He forces a smile. "Yeah. Just—long day."

She eyes him like she doesn't quite buy it, but then she grins. "Well, it's about to get better. Let's go, birthday boy."

She loops her arm through his, pulling him toward the house.

"Wait—you look amazing," Edward says, taking in her pale blue dress that complements her golden hair. "New?"

She beams. "Obviously. I had to look good next to you. You clean up nice, Cullen."

He huffs a laugh, grateful for the distraction. "Don't I always?"

"Cocky."

"Confident."

She rolls her eyes but squeezes his arm. "Seriously, though. Happy birthday, E."

And for a moment, Edward lets himself lean into their friendship, grounding himself in something solid—something that doesn't hurt.

…

The party is in full swing, laughter and music weaving through the warm evening air. Guests move fluidly between the house and the backyard, where twinkling lights cast a golden glow over the gathering. Edward stands near the drink table, fingers curled loosely around a soda can, but his attention is elsewhere.

Jasper.

He's always aware of him, but tonight, the pull is magnetic. It's like a string tethered between them, stretching across the space of the party. Every now and then, Edward catches Jasper's gaze—darkened, unreadable, yet charged. And every time, the moment lingers just a second too long before one of them looks away.

Edward knows Jasper is watching him just as much as he's watching Jasper. But they don't approach each other. Not really.

At one point, Jasper moves toward him, his golden-blond hair catching the light, his expression blank. Edward's pulse kicks up. This is it—Jasper is going to say something. One of his dry, offhanded jokes. A comment. Maybe even an explanation.

But then, just as quickly as he moves forward, Jasper hesitates. His body tenses, and he veers away, disappearing into a small group of friends near the fire pit.

Edward exhales sharply, masking the disappointment with a sip of his drink. He knows Jasper feels something—Edward isn't stupid. But whatever is holding Jasper back is winning, and Edward doesn't know how to fight something he can't even name.

For the rest of the night, it's a game of silent glances. Their eyes meet, the air between them thick with things left unsaid—but nothing changes. No words. No confrontation. Just distance, laced with stolen moments of awareness.

Edward wonders how much longer he can stand it.

Then the energy shifts—people gather, voices rising in excitement. Two birthday cakes are placed on the long wooden table in the yard, candles flickering atop each one. Edward and Jasper stand on opposite sides, just a few feet apart, yet the space between them feels impossibly vast.

Their families surround them: Emmett, Alice, and Esme standing beside Edward; Charlotte, Jasper's mother, Chelsea, his older sister, and Rosalie beam at Jasper. Their fathers, too—Major General Peter Elric Whitlock Hale, stiff and unreadable, and Doctor Carlisle Masen Cullen, relaxed but composed—flank them like opposing forces neither boy can escape.

The birthday song starts, voices blending together in an uneven but enthusiastic chorus. Edward barely registers the words. His gaze is drawn to Jasper, who stands tall, hands shoved in the pockets of his dark jeans, his expression carefully neutral. But his eyes—those piercing, luminous amber eyes—find Edward's.

The world blurs for a second. It's just them, locked in a gaze heavy with everything unsaid.

Then Chelsea nudges Jasper's arm, snapping the moment. Jasper blinks and looks away, his lips pressing into a thin line. Edward swallows, pushing down the frustration curling in his chest.

"Make a wish!" someone calls.

Edward hesitates. What is there to wish for when the one thing he wants is standing right in front of him, slipping through his fingers?

Jasper's expression remains unreadable, but Edward knows—knows he's feeling this, too. He just won't admit it.

They inhale at the same time, the warm glow of the candles casting soft shadows over their faces. Then, in sync, they blow them out.

For a split second, in the dark before the lights flicker back to life, their eyes meet again. A flicker of something—longing, regret, maybe even guilt—crosses Jasper's face.

And then it's gone.

Jasper turns away, slipping into the embrace of his mother and sisters, his face angled away from Edward as if the moment never happened.

Edward stands frozen, the cheers and applause around him muffled, his heart pounding beneath the weight of everything Jasper refuses to say. The moment lingers, heavy—until his family surrounds him, their arms pulling him into a collective hug, grounding him in their warmth.

…

The night air is cool against Edward's heated skin, but it does nothing to ground him. He leans against the side of the house, tucked away in one of the many shadowed corners where the party lights don't reach. His head is bowed, his hands gripping his arms as he tries to pull himself together.

But the memories don't let him.

They pull him back—three nights ago—Jasper slipping through his window like he had so many times before. Silent. Sure. Moving with that effortless confidence he carries everywhere, except here, with Edward, he always softens. Just a little.

The way Jasper's fingers had traced his lips before pulling him into a slow, consuming kiss. The weight of his body pressing Edward into the mattress, their movements instinctual, perfectly in sync—like they were made for this. For each other.

Stifling their sounds so no one in the house would wake.

Jasper whispering his name against his skin like it meant something.

And then—

Gone.

Edward squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head sharply. He can still feel the ghost of Jasper's touch on his skin, a phantom sensation that won't leave him no matter how much he wills it to.

His breath shudders as he exhales, pushing off the wall. He turns, resting his forehead against the cool surface, trying to steady himself.

That's when he hears it.

Soft shuffling.

His eyes open, and his breath catches when he sees them—the dark sneakers stopping just beside him.

His heartbeat stutters, then picks up again. His gaze stays on them for a second longer than necessary, his mind racing. He doesn't have to look up to know who it is.

He knows Jasper's presence in his bones.

Edward clenches his jaw, pressing his forehead harder against the cool wall, willing himself to stay still, to not react—to not hope.

Silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating. Jasper doesn't move, doesn't speak. He just stands there, close enough that Edward swears he can feel his warmth even without touching.

For a moment, Edward lets himself believe Jasper is here for him. That maybe—just maybe—he's changed his mind. Edward straightens, his breath still caught in his throat as he finally looks up at Jasper. The dim light barely reaches them here, but it doesn't matter—Edward would recognize him in complete darkness.

Jasper exhales, low and steady, like he's grounding himself. And Edward knows.

Knows this isn't a beginning.

It's an ending that refuses to end.

Jasper says nothing.

He just steps closer.

Edward's heart hammers against his ribs as he tilts his head back instinctively—Jasper is taller, much taller, and his sheer presence is overwhelming. Six foot four of sharp angles, quiet intensity, and something else—something unreadable in the way his amber eyes burn into Edward's. Broad-shouldered and commanding, Jasper looms over him, the space between them evaporating.

Edward has to lift his chin just to keep their eyes locked, but he doesn't move. He can't. The air is heavy, charged, thick with everything unsaid. At five foot eleven, Edward isn't small—far from it—but standing this close, the height difference does something to him. His pulse rushes in his ears, his skin prickles, and his stomach twists with something hot and confusing.

And for a second, he swears Jasper might finally speak.

But he doesn't.

Instead, Jasper steps in, closing the space between them in a slow, deliberate move. His hand finds Edward's chest, pressing him back against the wall—firm, sure, unyielding.

Then, his fingers lift. His thumb ghosts over Edward's bottom lip, the touch featherlight, almost questioning, before tracing up to cradle his face. His fingertips skim over Edward's cheek, slow and reverent, as if memorizing the shape of him.

Jasper's gaze is deep, searching. Something indecipherable flickers in his golden eyes, dark and consuming.

And then—

Jasper's lips press against his.

Slow. Deep. Like he's pouring something into the kiss that he refuses to put into words.

Edward melts instantly. His fingers clutch at the sides of Jasper's Henley, gripping tight, pulling him closer—because he has to, because resisting isn't an option.

Because surrendering to Jasper is the only thing that has ever felt this inevitable.

This is it, Edward thinks.

The moment he hoped for.

Jasper regrets ending things. He has to.

Because no one kisses like this unless they mean it.

The world fades—the sounds of the party, the voices, the music—all of it disappears. Right now, there's only Jasper. Only the press of his lips, the warmth of his body, the way he holds Edward like he's something to be cherished.

But then, just as softly as it started, it ends.

Jasper lingers, his lips barely brushing against Edward's before pulling back, his forehead resting against Edward's. He exhales, the sound deep, almost pained.

"Happy birthday, Red," he murmurs.

Edward blinks, still dazed, but Jasper is already pulling back just enough to look at him. There's something final in his eyes, something Edward doesn't understand. His stomach clenches.

"What—" Edward swallows. "What does this mean?"

Jasper's lips press into a thin line. Then, after a moment, he exhales through his nose and shrugs.

"That was your birthday gift."

Edward's chest tightens. His brows draw together. "Jasper—"

"Forget it," Jasper cuts him off softly. "Everything between us. Forget it."

Edward's breath catches, his heart plummeting. "What?"

He barely gets the word out before Jasper silences him with another kiss—brief, soft, almost like an apology. When Jasper pulls back again, Edward searches his face, desperate for an explanation, for something that makes sense.

"Why?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Jasper exhales stiffly, his jaw tensing. He looks away for half a second, then shrugs—small, forced, empty.

"We just… can't."

Edward releases a shuddered breath. His chest aches. He sees it—sees the flicker of emotion in Jasper's eyes, the way his fingers tighten briefly at his sides. But then, like a switch flipping, Jasper shuts down. His face goes blank, his stance shifting into something impenetrable, untouchable.

And then he turns and walks away.

Edward stands frozen, his breath uneven, his mind racing. His lips still tingle from Jasper's kiss, but the words linger more than anything. Forget it.

His chest tightens, frustration bubbling up alongside the confusion. He can't just accept that.

Before he realizes it, his feet are moving.

His pulse pounds as he strides after Jasper, determined to confront him, to demand an answer, to make him say something real.

But then—

Laughter, music, the warm glow of string lights—Edward blinks and suddenly, he's back in the yard. The party is still alive, and the shift from the quiet shadows to this overwhelming brightness disorients him.

And then Rosalie is in front of him.

He halts abruptly, his heart still racing. Over her shoulder, he sees Jasper walking farther away, his broad back disappearing into the crowd. Edward's stomach twists as he watches him rejoin a group near the pool—his friends from school. Alice is there, talking animatedly with someone, but Jasper…

Jasper isn't really there.

He stands among them, but he's distant, his face blank, his eyes empty—shut down.

"Edward?"

Rosalie's voice pulls him back.

He forces himself to refocus, to meet her bright, smiling eyes. She hasn't noticed anything. Doesn't know what just happened.

She reaches for his hand, lacing her fingers through his.

"Come with me," she says, tugging gently.

Edward hesitates—his mind still caught in that dark corner, still haunted by the ghost of Jasper's touch. But Rosalie is warm, familiar, grounding.

So he complies.

But just before he turns, he risks one last glance at Jasper.

And Jasper is watching him.

Expressionless.

Void.

Like nothing just happened. Like he didn't just kiss Edward like he meant it, then walk away as if it were nothing.

Edward swallows hard. His chest tightens.

Then Rosalie tugs his hand, and he lets himself be pulled away.

Until he sees where they're going.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second before stepping inside. But Rosalie notices nothing.

The air in the pool house is warm, thick, laced with the distant hum of music from outside. But inside, it's quieter. Closer. More intimate.

And it's this corner. That sofa.

Rosalie doesn't know—could never know—but the moment he sees it, Edward is thrown back into the past.

The way Jasper hovered over him, eyes conflicted, torn between want and restraint.

"It's too soon, Red. You don't have to—"

"I want to." Edward had silenced him with a kiss, a slow, deep slide of lips and tongue. He'd felt Jasper's resolve cracking beneath his touch, beneath his whispered pleas, beneath the way he pressed closer, desperate to feel everything.

Jasper had given in. Carefully. Gently. With a patience Edward hadn't expected but had melted for.

It had been perfect.

The best night of his life.

And now—

"E?"

Rosalie's voice pulls him back, her fingers still wrapped around his. She tugs lightly, encouraging him to sit.

He exhales, trying to push the memory away, trying to stay here. With her.

He already suspects what this is.

For months now, he's noticed the shift. The way Rosalie's touches have lingered. The way her eyes have softened, warmed in a way they hadn't before. The way she looks at him now—hopeful, nervous, determined.

His heart clenches.

If things were different—if his heart weren't already taken—he wouldn't hesitate. Rosalie is stunning, brilliant, kind. He loves her.

But not like that.

Still, he sits.

Rosalie takes a deep breath.

And Edward knows exactly what she's about to say before she even opens her mouth.

Rosalie exhales sharply, her grip on his hand tightening. "E, I…" She hesitates, but only for a second, before pressing forward, her voice steady. "I like you. More than just as a friend."

Edward swallows, his chest tightening.

"I know you probably already noticed," she continues, offering a small, almost self-conscious laugh. "I wasn't exactly subtle. But I wanted to say it out loud. I needed to." Her blue eyes search his face, earnest and full of quiet hope. "I want to be with you, Edward."

Edward's heart pounds—not with excitement, not with nervous anticipation, but with sheer dread.

He doesn't want this.

Doesn't want to lie. Doesn't want to break her heart. Doesn't want to hurt her.

But he can't tell her the truth.

Can't tell her that he's been in love with her brother for months. That Jasper was his first—his first kiss, his first touch, his first everything. That Jasper sneaked through his window at night. That they stole moments in secret, whispered words in the dark.

Can't tell her that, even now, he still wants to fight for Jasper.

Even if Jasper won't let him.

He looks down at their joined hands, takes a slow breath, and lifts his gaze to meet hers again. "Rose…" he starts carefully, his voice gentle. "You're my best friend."

She shakes her head, smiling softly. "I know that. But we could be more."

His stomach twists. "What if we try, and it doesn't work?" he says, choosing his words with care. "What if we lose this?" He squeezes her hand slightly, letting the warmth of her touch ground him. "I don't want to lose you."

"You won't," she says, fierce and certain. "That could never happen, Edward."

His throat tightens.

All she wants is a chance. Just a chance.

And Edward doesn't know how to turn her down without breaking her heart.

"I just…" He rubs the back of his neck, needing a moment, needing time. "I don't want to rush into anything."

She watches him closely, her expression unreadable.

"I'm leaving with Emm tomorrow," he says after a beat. "We're taking a trip together for a few days. Let me think about it while I'm gone, and when I get back, I'll give you an answer."

Rosalie studies him for a long moment, as if deciding whether to push further. Then, slowly, she nods.

"Okay."

Edward forces a small smile, but his chest feels tight.

Because he knows—deep down—that no matter how much time he takes, his answer won't change.

Edward exhales softly, letting his forehead rest against hers for just a second before pressing a gentle kiss there. Rosalie closes her eyes at the contact, her fingers curling slightly against his arm.

He wraps his arms around her, holding her close. He does love her—so much that the thought of hurting her makes his stomach twist painfully. He never wanted this. Never wanted to be in a position where his silence became a lie, where his heart pulled him in one direction while loyalty pulled him in another.

She sighs against his shoulder, squeezing him. "I'm really glad we talked, E."

"Me too," he whispers, though the words feel like ash in his mouth.

He tells himself that the trip with Emmett will help. That with his brother's guidance, he'll figure out how to navigate this, how to step away from Rosalie's hopes without breaking them.

That he won't lose her.

That he won't lose himself.

Edward holds onto her for just a little longer before finally pulling back, offering her a small, reassuring smile.

And as she smiles back, hopeful and content, the weight in his chest only grows heavier.

…

Jasper lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the darkness of his room doing nothing to quiet the turmoil inside him. His body is tense, restless, his mind refusing to shut down. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Edward. Feels him.

The kiss. The way Edward looked at him afterward—searching for something Jasper couldn't give.

His chest tightens. He turns onto his side, gripping the sheets, but it doesn't help. The frustration gnaws at him, a slow burn under his skin.

You told him to forget. You told him it was over.

Then why the fuck does it feel like it's not?

Jasper sits up abruptly, scrubbing a hand over his face. His gaze shifts toward the window, and that's when he sees it.

Across the street, Edward's window is open. The green ribbon tied at the corner trellis sways lightly in the breeze.

Jasper's breath catches. His whole body hums with something sharp, something restless. That ribbon—it's their signal. The sign Edward would leave for him at nights when he wanted Jasper to come to him.

For a split second, Jasper is already moving, already picturing himself climbing through that window, into Edward's room, into his arms.

His pulse is a drum in his ears, his fingers twitching.

But then he stops. Grits his teeth.

No.

He forces himself still, fists clenching the sheets.

This is what got them here in the first place—

Him wanting.

Him taking.

Him being weak.

A Whitlock Hale man is never weak.

How many times had his father drilled that into him?

His jaw locks. His breath turns unsteady as he rips his gaze from the window.

He needs to move. Needs to get this out of his system.

He throws on a hoodie, grabs his wraps, and heads for the gym in the back of the house.

It's been hours since the party ended. The house is silent, the sky outside shifting from black to the first hints of deep blue. Almost dawn. But Jasper hasn't slept, and he knows he won't, not with this fire burning inside him.

Stepping into the gym, he flicks on the dim lights, the familiar scent of sweat and leather grounding him. He wastes no time—tapes up his hands, squares up in front of the heavy bag.

And then he starts.

Fist meets leather, a solid thud breaking the quiet. Over and over. Faster. Harder.

But it doesn't help. It doesn't erase the feeling of Edward's lips, the way he melted into Jasper like he belonged to him.

Jasper grits his teeth, pushes harder. His breath is ragged now, sweat dripping down his temple, his muscles aching with exertion—but nothing quiets the storm inside him. Nothing drowns out the memory of Edward's green eyes darkening with hurt, confusion, frustration.

Why the hell did you kiss him?

Jasper clenches his jaw, turns back to the punching bag. He can't think about that. Won't.

He's stronger than this.

But Edward's face won't leave his mind.

That look when Jasper told him to forget everything.

That flicker of pain before he masked it.

The silent questions written all over his face as their eyes met across the yard—before he let Rosalie take his hand and lead him away.

Something sharp twists in Jasper's gut, and he drives his fist forward, harder than before—

Crack.

Pain flares up his knuckles, white-hot and sharp. He stumbles back, chest heaving, staring at his bleeding hand.

The bag swings violently from the impact, the chain groaning. The scent of iron lingers in the air.

Jasper exhales sharply, flexing his fingers as he watches the crimson smear across his knuckles. The sting barely registers, dulled beneath the pulsing heat in his veins, beneath the weight pressing against his ribs like a vice.

He wipes his bloody knuckles on his sweatpants, resets his stance, and strikes again. Harder. Faster. The chain groans under the force, the rhythmic thud of impact filling the empty gym.

But Edward is still there, haunting the edges of his mind.

The way he surrendered... like Jasper never ended whatever they had in the first place.

Jasper curses under his breath, shakes his head violently.

Get out of my fucking head, Red.

But Edward doesn't leave. He never really does.

Jasper tightens his fists, lifts them again—

And then—

"Jazzy." A voice cuts through the space—low, tired.

Jasper freezes, blood roaring in his ears.

His head snaps toward the entrance, where his older brother stands, arms crossed, watching him with that steely, knowing look.

Major Demetri Ellis Whitlock Hale.

D—for only Jasper.

The intimidating thirty-two-year-old military man towers near the door, expressionless as ever. He stands at six foot five, built just like their father—broad-shouldered, strong-jawed, naturally imposing. The same ivory skin, the same golden-dark blond hair neatly trimmed to regulation. If not for the extra inch in height and the sharpness of his features, Demetri could be mistaken for a younger version of Peter.

Jasper, too, is almost his father's mirror, down to the sculpted lines of his face and the way power settles inherently in his posture. He stands at Peter's exact height, carrying the same streamlined athleticism, the same air of quiet dominance. But where their father's and siblings' eyes are an icy, inscrutable blue, Jasper's burn a striking, luminous amber—the only pair in the family, the only deviation from the blueprint passed down between generations. The only trace of something different.

Charlotte, their mother, once joked that Jasper got his eyes from her, though hers are only a soft, unremarkable light brown. But Jasper knows the truth—his eyes don't come from either of them. They are his own. And they have always set him apart.

In reality, Jasper may look like their father, but he is nothing like him—or their mother. And their parents have never truly seen him. Not really.

If anyone in the world has ever truly seen him—looked past the pretenses, the armor, the control—it's Demetri. His brother has always been the only one Jasper can be real with. The only one who knows the full truth.

Standing in the family's home gym in the middle of the night, fists bloodied and breath ragged, Jasper doesn't have to pretend in front of his best friend, his confidant, his protector. Not the way he does with everyone else.

Demetri came back for his birthday—his eighteenth. The big one. He arrived just as the party was ending, and Jasper had been pleased to see him.

But not now.

Not here.

His brother has always been a tether—something safer, something older than the chaos in Jasper's head.

But standing there now, in his usual command stance, watching him with that keen stare, something in Jasper coils tight under Demetri's scrutiny.

He exhales sharply, turning back to the bag. "What?" he mutters under his breath, already throwing another punch—sharp, precise, fueled by something raw—driving it back with force.

But before it can arc back, Demetri steps in and catches it mid-swing. Steadies the bag. Steadies him.

Jasper stills, caught in the weight of his brother's gaze.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks.

Then—

"Nightmares again?" Demetri asks, voice quiet but firm.

Jasper clenches his jaw. Shakes his head. "No."

Demetri doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Just nods, like he always does—accepting the answer, even if he knows there's more.

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Then what's this about?"

Jasper shifts, inhaling sharply through his nose. His throat works around the answer.

Finally—

"Cullen."

Demetri nods again, like that explains everything. Because, to him, it does.

He's the only one Jasper told about Edward. About the four months. The nights. The touches. The intimacy. The fucking feelings Jasper refuses to name.

For a while, Demetri says nothing. Then—

"Why don't you try giving yourself a chance?" His voice is gentle, but there's weight to it.

Jasper goes rigid.

"No." His head shakes immediately. "I can't. I won't."

Demetri studies him. "Why not?"

Jasper exhales, eyes flicking away before settling back on his brother. "You know why. Because a Whitlock Hale man is never weak." His tone is dry. Acidic. "I can't let myself be weak."

Demetri's lips press together, but he doesn't interrupt.

"And because of Rose."

Demetri frowns. "Rose?"

Jasper nods once, jaw tight. "She's in love with him. I'm making sure she gets a chance."

Something flickers in Demetri's eyes. Confusion. Jasper sees it. Feels it.

So before his brother can say something stupid—something Jasper doesn't want to think about—he adds,

"The Cullen isn't like me, D. He likes girls too."

Demetri's jaw flexes, like he is chewing on something he wants to say but knows better. After a long moment, he exhales.

"And you're sure you want to hurt yourself like this?"

Jasper lets out a humorless chuckle. "I'm not hurting."

Again, Demetri doesn't look convinced.

He steps forward, voice lowering. "You can't keep pretending you're a fucking fortress, Jazzy. At some point, you're gonna have to put the damn wards down. Let someone in."

Jasper's expression hardens. "That will never happen."

They hold each other's gaze. A silent battle. Then—

Demetri sighs.

He doesn't push. Doesn't argue. Just reaches out, giving Jasper's shoulder a firm squeeze.

"I'll always be here for you. You know that, right?"

Jasper swallows. Nods. "I know."

Demetri studies him for another second, then turns and walks back into the house, leaving Jasper alone with his thoughts.

Jasper stares at the door long after his brother is gone.

Then, slowly, he turns back to the bag. Flexes his bloodied knuckles.

Repeats the words over and over in his mind.

I can do this.

Edward was just another fling.

I'll forget about him. Soon.

But deep down—where Jasper never lets himself look too closely—he's terrified he never will.