AN: lord, that last chapter took a lot out of me. I don't know about you, but I was emotionally exhausted. I'm trying to wrap up some loose ends in this one. It's shorter one, a get in and get out, but still pushes us onward.

Thanks to my pre-readers Brina and May! You ladies are the best.

Disclaimer: SM owns Twilight. All rights are hers.

All I own is my mistakes.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

-Who's Bruiser Now-

He wakes up swearing.

A rough, "Fuck—" rips out of him like it physically hurt to say.

And it must've, because right after, his whole body seizes up. He flinches hard, clutching at his ribs like they're splitting open again, and lets out this awful, guttural groan.

"Shit," he pants, jaw clenched so tight I swear I hear it pop. "Fuck. Fuck."

I jolt upright, heart racing. I'd been half-asleep, curled up next to him, tracing around the edge of the bandage on his side. But now he's breathing all messed up, gasping through his teeth, eyes shut like he's trying not to pass out.

"Oh my God—hey," I say quickly, scooting in, hands hovering. "Don't move, okay? Edward, you gotta slow your breathing or you're gonna knock yourself out."

"Can't," he grits. "Ribs. Feels like—knife—"

"Okay, nope, not listening to that," I cut in, already climbing over him, trying to stay light. I press a hand to the good side of his chest. "Just let me help, alright? Breathe with me, nice and easy."

I've got him propped up against a mountain of pillows, wrapped up like some injured prince in rumpled hotel sheets and ice packs. He's even letting me fuss over him without complaining, which says a lot about how bad he's feeling.

"I told you last night you were gonna feel like a corpse today," I whisper, brushing his curls off his forehead.

He lets out this shaky breath through his nose—kind of a laugh, maybe, if you really squint. His eyes are still shut. Probably because he knows if he moves, something's gonna hurt in ten different places.

"You're enjoying this," he mutters.

"Me?" I raise a brow. "Absolutely not. I'm just over here appreciating the fact that you didn't, you know, die on national television."

One eye opens—barely. Bloodshot, glassy. "Did we win?"

I blink. Just… stare at him.

Then I sit up and smack his thigh. Not hard, just enough to say what the hell is wrong with you.

"Are you kidding me right now? You're practically falling apart and the first thing out of your mouth is did we win? Not 'where am I,' not 'why does my entire body feel like it got run over by a truck'—did we win."

He blinks at me, all dazed and serious.

I throw my hands up. "Yeah, fine. You won. You stayed on your feet after that hit, finished the drive, and threw a perfect pass to Garrett—with blood in your mouth. The stadium went crazy. Emmett actually cried."

He squints. "Emmett cried?"

"Yup. Real tears. Full-on emotional meltdown. It was weirdly sweet."

He groans again, eyes sliding shut. I can see the lines around his mouth. The pain's creeping in deeper now that the adrenaline's finally ditched him. His body's a mess of swelling and stitches, and he's probably running a low-grade fever because of course he is.

But apparently none of that matters as long as the Seahawks got the W.

"Don't try to talk," I say, quieter now. I lean down and rest my forehead against his. "You scared the absolute crap out of me, Edward."

His voice sounds like sandpaper. "Didn't think it'd hit me this hard."

"Yeah, well… that's 'cause you were riding adrenaline. You got through the MVP thing, two doctors, and—me." My face goes a little warm, but I keep going. "Twice. One of those times in the shower. So yeah, pretty sure your body finally tapped out."

He lets out this wheezy, painful laugh—and instantly regrets it. "God. I think my spine's broken."

"Okay, no. Don't say stuff like that unless you want me to cry," I say, pulling back just enough to look at him. "Seriously. Are you okay? Like, not-dying okay?"

He blinks at me. Slow. Eyes glassy. "Garrett caught it?"

I smack his leg again, because of course that's what he's thinking about. "Yes, Garrett caught it. Game-winner. You stood there like a statue, didn't even flinch when the confetti hit you. Then you kissed me on national TV, so thanks for that."

His mouth twitches. "Was it good?"

"It was filthy. You had blood on your lip. I'm pretty sure half the country passed out."

He groans, sinking further into the pillows. "Shit."

"Yeah. You're a total mess." I lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth, gentle. "But you're my mess."

He hums—barely. "Medicated mess?"

"You ready for the drugs now?" I ask, already reaching for the water and the pills I stashed on the nightstand.

He nods, slow like it takes effort.

I drop the painkillers into his hand and hold the glass for him while he drinks. "Sip slow. You don't get to choke and die on me today, alright?"

He swallows, winces, and sinks back against the pillows. Eyes shut again, like he's finally letting the exhaustion pull him under.

I slide in next to him, careful, curling up on his good side with my hand over his chest where I can feel his heart still going strong. His breathing is steady now, the tight pinch between his brows finally starting to ease as the meds kick in.

He's groggy, but alert enough to notice the chart on the nightstand. The one the Seahawks' doctor handed me this morning while Edward was still asleep.

"Is that mine?" he mumbles, nodding toward the folder.

I hesitate. "Yeah."

"Read it to me?"

I chew on my bottom lip. He watches me closely, brows lifting like he already knows I don't want to. But I nod anyway.

"Okay," I say, flipping it open. "No fractures. No torn ligaments. No major internal damage. Just contusions, inflammation, and… uh… a mild concussion."

His mouth twists. "Yeah, I figured."

I pause. Just a second too long. I don't say anything about what else the doctor told me. About CTE. About the long-term damage these "mild" concussions can add up to. I swallow it all down and smile instead.

"No ligament tears is good," I say lightly. "You'll live."

"Dang," he murmurs. "And here I was hoping I'd get a bionic shoulder out of this."

I roll my eyes and toss the folder gently onto the nightstand. "You're already half machine. Don't push your luck."

Edward grins faintly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He's tired, still hurting, but the color in his face is better now. He lets his head fall sideways to look at me, lazy and amused.

"So… no serious injuries?" he repeats.

"Just scrapes. Bruises. Concussion. You're basically a human peach."

He snorts. "Sweet."

"Bruised."

"Delicate."

"Overhyped," I shoot back. "Who's Bruiser now?"

He gasps. "You did not just call me that."

"It's fitting, I think," I say smugly. "You're covered in them."

"Oh, yeah?" His hand drifts down, and he catches mine. Frowns. His thumb brushes my forearm, and he goes still. "What's this then?" he asks, fingers ghosting over the large, ugly bruise blooming just below my elbow.

Shoot.

I forgot about that.

"It's nothing," I say quickly, pulling my arm back. Too late. His eyes are locked on mine.

"Honey." His voice drops. "How did this happen?"

I blush and look away. "I, um… I think I hit a counter or something?"

His brows lift. "You think?"

"It was kind of chaotic last night," I mumble. "There were people everywhere. Someone bumped me and I… maybe got clipped on the corner of the snack table?"

He just stares. Not mad. Not upset. Just watching me like he's trying to make sense of it.

"Seriously," I add, softer this time, "it's fine. Doesn't even hurt."

He doesn't believe me. I can tell. His hand drifts over my arm again, gentler this time, like he's trying to will the bruise away.

"I'm okay," I whisper.

He nods slowly. But the muscle in his jaw twitches.

"Let's talk about something else," he says, voice rough. "Helps keep my mind off the pain."

I smile a little. "You want gossip?"

"Always."

I lower my voice like it's state secrets. "Jasper and Alice might be a thing."

"My agent, Jasper? Who reads financial reports for fun and brings his own French press to meetings?"

"Mmhmm."

He blinks. "With Alice?"

"Yup."

"No."

"Yes."

Edward lets his head fall back against the pillow. "You're messing with me. I thought she liked Garrett."

"She did like Garrett, but now, all she's got eyes for is Jasper. You should've seen them, baby. It was love at first sight."

"I just—" He breaks off, groaning like the shock physically hurts. "That makes no sense. She's all—women's lib, and burning the system down with her eyes."

"She is," I agree, grinning. "And yet. There they were. Cozied up in the corner booth all night. I mean cozied, Edward. She was practically sitting in his lap by the time the second round hit the table."

He looks baffled. "He's… conservative."

"So is she, in her own way. Don't let the winged eyeliner and political rants fool you. She's got farm-girl energy under all that fire."

"Didn't you tell me she once threatened to unionize her entire yoga studio?"

"And now she's talking about raising goats."

His jaw drops. "What?"

"Raising. Goats," I say, savoring it. "I quote: 'I could see myself bottle-feeding a kid on a porch somewhere.' And not in a metaphorical way. She meant the goat."

He stares. "No. No way. She made fun of me for liking old pickup trucks."

I laugh. "She still would. But apparently if Jasper's driving it and talking about rotational grazing, it's hot now."

He shakes his head slowly, disbelief all over his face. "I need to lie down."

"You are lying down."

"Then I need a reset button."

I lean in close, bump my nose against his. "I'm telling you—it's real."

He exhales, still frowning. "So my quiet, rule-following, polite-as-hell agent is falling for a woman who once picketed outside a Whole Foods."

"Yes."

"And she's into it."

"She's so into it."

Edward just lies there for a second, shaking his head like he still can't compute it. "Man. I hope he knows what he's doing."

"He doesn't," I say cheerfully. "He's spiraling."

Edward groans. "Poor bastard."

"Poor b-word is in deep."

That makes him smile—slow and crooked, but real. His fingers slide into mine again, easy and warm.

There's a pause.

Then he looks at me—sharp. "There's something else."

I freeze. "What?"

He narrows his eyes. "Your voice did a thing."

"My voice did not do a thing."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Bella."

I shift, suddenly very interested in adjusting his blanket. "It's not a big deal."

His stare sharpens. "There is something else. More juicy?"

I hesitate, caught.

His mouth tightens. "Spill it."

I sigh. "Okay—but you have to promise not to sit up."

Immediately, he tries, but groans in pain. "Damn it. What?"

"Gigi," I say.

His eyes flash. "What about her?"

"She… kind of approached me. At the club. While I was waiting for the bathroom."

He shifts again like he's going to sit up—forgetting everything, including his own body—then collapses back with a hiss of pain. "Fuck. Okay—what did she say?"

"She was polite," I start carefully, trying to ease into it. "Surprisingly polite, actually."

"That doesn't mean anything," he snaps, eyes boring into me. "What did she say, Bella?"

I hesitate. That's all it takes.

His whole face changes. Not angry—worse. Worried. "No," he mutters. "Don't do that. Don't pause like that. That's the pause people use before they tell you someone died."

"She didn't say anything bad," I lie. Sort of. Not really. "She just… wanted to meet me."

"Why?"

"I think she just needed closure or something."

He's already shaking his head. "She doesn't do closure. Gigi doesn't do anything unless it serves her. What did she actually say?"

I don't answer fast enough.

"Bruiser," he warns, voice low and ragged. "I know that face. You're leaving something out."

"I'm not—"

"You are."

I press my lips together.

His eyes narrow, and he drops his head back against the pillow, frustration carved into every line of his jaw. "Jesus. What did she do, Bella?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. "She said she always knew about me."

His brow furrows. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," I say slowly. "I've been turning it over ever since. She didn't come right out and say it, but… it was heavily implied. Like she always sensed you weren't really hers. That part of you was somewhere else. With me."

His face goes slack—eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights. "She said that?"

"Not explicitly," I murmur. "But yeah. It felt like… confirmation. Like she'd known for a long time and just wanted to see for herself."

Edward groans and rubs his hands down his face. "Shit."

I watch him closely. "What does that mean?"

He hesitates. His throat works around the words like they physically hurt. "It's not a big thing, but… I left out a major reason we broke up."

"You said she was seeing some rocker guy."

"Yeah." He winces. "But I left out why she started seeing him."

I stay quiet, letting the space stretch.

He finally glances at me—guilty, wrecked, embarrassed as hell. "She went through my phone."

"What?"

He nods slowly. "Yeah. Snooped while I was asleep one night. I guess she'd been feeling it for a while, that I wasn't all there. And then… she found it. Everything."

"Everything?"

He blows out a breath. "Texts I never sent. Screenshots of old messenger chats. Your Instagram, your LinkedIn, your college newspaper articles—everything, honey. I mean, shit I didn't even know I saved. Shit I forgot I saved."

My mouth parts, stunned. "You had all that on your phone?"

"I wasn't proud of it," he mutters, eyes closed like he's praying the ceiling swallows him whole. "It was creepy. I know it was creepy. But I didn't know what the hell was wrong with me. I just… couldn't let go. Even when I was with her."

I don't say anything. I'm not sure I can.

Edward's voice is hoarse. "That's what ended it. Not the guy. Not the arguments. Not even football. She saw how far gone I was over you and realized she never stood a fucking chance."

You know, I should be weirded out by his confession—but let's be real. I stole things from him. His cologne. His shirts. I memorized his schedule like a maniac and may or may not have checked his tagged photos like it was my full-time job. So no, I don't cringe at the thought of his obsession. I melt. My insides curl and warm like a damn cliché.

Because that one line? Gigi never stood a chance.

God help me, I swoon.

"I can't believe you were so hung-up on me," I tease, wiggling my way deeper into the crook of his body, claiming the space like it's mine. Because it is. "How sad."

He chuckles, low and rough in his chest, but the sound fades fast. His next words carry that weight—his voice tightening, sobering. "I'm sorry about Gigi. She shouldn't have ambushed you like that."

I shrug like it doesn't bother me, like I'm breezy and unbothered and not secretly playing the moment back in my mind for the hundredth time. "She was just curious."

"I don't care what she was, Bruiser. It wasn't appropriate. The first thing I told Gigi when you and I started dating was that meeting you would happen on my terms."

That hits me somewhere I wasn't expecting. I sit up straighter, my eyebrows knitting together.

"You talked to her about us?"

The tips of Edward's ears turn scarlet, and he swallows hard, like the words taste like gravel in his mouth. "Yeah," he admits, and his gaze flickers over my face like he's trying to read me in real time. He must see something—hell, I don't even know what it is I'm feeling, but it's clear as day to him. He reaches out, touches me softly. Shifts his weight, grimacing as he does. "It was after that first story came out, you know? The one where they caught us outside the doctor's office."

My stomach lurches, twisting itself into a painful knot. It's not betrayal. Not jealousy either. But something else—something sharp and tender, like old wounds ripped back open.

"You talked to your ex-fiancée about me?" I ask again, this time quieter, slower.

"She called me. Asking if you were the one. The girl she saw in my phone. I told her yes. And then she asked to meet you." His eyes stay locked on mine. "I didn't understand why."

It clicks then. The feeling. Not betrayal. Not jealousy. But grief. For her. For the ache of unrequited love that never really dulls with time. Gigi is in love with Edward. Still. And she has to watch him look at me the way she probably begged him to look at her.

I pity her.

He doesn't stop. "I told her there's a time and place for everything, and having my girl meet my ex wasn't ever gonna be the right time. It fucking pisses me off that she took it upon herself and barged her way into an introduction."

Wordlessly, I reach for his hand and place it on the swell of my stomach—our babies. I press my palm over his. "I'm not upset. So, you shouldn't be either."

He nods, the furrow in his brow loosening just slightly. His thumb brushes slow circles over me. "Okay."

I inhale deeply, bracing. "Since we've decided not to be mad, I need to tell you one last thing…"

He groans—low and gravelly. Classic Edward. But he doesn't speak.

It's kind of cute, his little grumpy bear routine.

"Do I want to fucking know?"

"Probably not," I admit. "But I have a feeling you're about to pass out. So, real quick—I might've let it slip to Gigi that we were pregnant."

His eyes narrow as he jerks his chin toward the bedside table. "Get your phone and pull up TMZ."

I roll my eyes. "Now you're just being paranoid."

"Yeah? We'll see."

So, I do. I lean over and grab my phone, unlock it, and start scrolling. It doesn't take long—two swipes in and there it is: a crystal-clear photo of me and Gigi standing under the club's moody lighting. Me, stunned. Her, gorgeous. The caption makes my breath catch:

Ex-fiancée, supermodel Gigi Bundchen, confronts NFL star Edward Cullen's baby mama.

"No…" I whisper. I click into the article, scanning faster and faster until her quote punches me in the face:

"Eddie is a standup guy. Always has been. So I'm not surprised that he's owning up to things and being there for her."

"What the… are you—"

"Fucking kidding me?" Edward says the words for me.

I glance over at him. His eyes have gone dark, jaw locked, protectiveness radiating from him in waves.

"She set me up?"

And that betrayal I wasn't feeling earlier? Yeah. It's here now. In full swing.

"Like I said," he mutters, "Gigi only does things that serve her."

"She made it seem like you just knocked me up and you're only with me because you're such a great guy."

Edward sits up slightly, placing his hand on the side of my neck and drawing me down to him. His voice is steady, serious. "You have every right to be pissed."

"She made me feel bad for her," I say, voice small. "She made me… like her."

His eyes widen slightly, then soften just a touch. A crooked smile teases his lips. "You liked her?"

"I mean, I didn't hate her," I grumble. "I thought it was cool that she wanted to make things less awkward between us."

"And now, it'll be?"

"Super duper awkward." I sigh, flopping gently onto his chest. My voice muffled by his skin. "Gigi and Vickie are…"

"Good friends," he finishes.

"Ughhh," I groan dramatically. "So, what? Our pregnancy is out to the world. What do we do?"

Edward doesn't hesitate. He wraps both arms around me and pulls me in tight. "Nothing. We continue to live our life."

"Easy for you to say. Gigi portrayed you as the martyr. Sacrificing your life to take care of some girl you impregnated."

"Yeah," he deadpans. "What a fucking martyr I am. I got the only woman I ever loved to carry my babies."

I lift my chin to rest it on his chest, looking up at him. There's no armor there. No distance. Just Edward, sarcastic and sincere all at once.

"Smooth," I whisper.

Edward reaches up and brushes a loose strand of hair from my face, his fingertips lingering a second too long against my cheek. His hand is warm, calloused, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.

"We should get out of here," he says, voice low and rough, almost like a suggestion to misbehave. "Take a break. Disappear for a while. Somewhere quiet. The Caribbean. Europe. I don't care. Just… not here."

I blink, surprised. "Like a babymoon?"

His brows pull together. "What the hell is that?"

I laugh, burying my face against his chest for a second. God, he's serious. "It's like a honeymoon, but for expecting parents. One last trip before everything changes. Before we're… I don't know—sleep-deprived zombies covered in spit-up and guilt."

He lifts an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Sounds made up."

"It is," I admit, grinning. "But it's also cute."

Edward grunts, but the corner of his mouth twitches—he's fighting a smile and losing. "Fine. Call it whatever you want. As long as you're with me, and we're far the fuck away from headlines and ex-fiancées, I'm in."

"Sweet. When do we leave? Tonight?"

"I wish," he says, voice lower now. "But I've got one more meeting. Debrief with the team, coach… whole post-season cleanup bullshit."

I nod, even though I can already feel the outside world trying to creep back in. "Right. Closure."

"Something like that." He winces slightly, shifting his body, stiff from bruises no one could see under the lights. "And I need to actually be able to walk on sand without looking like I've been hit by a truck."

"You were hit by a truck," I say, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "Or at least a six-foot-four linebacker with a grudge and no impulse control."

He huffs out a laugh, but there's exhaustion behind it. "Still got the ring, though."

"Still got the girl," I whisper.

His eyes meet mine, burning steady. There's a long beat where we just lie there, holding that moment between us like something sacred.

"So," I say eventually, fingers trailing along his day-old scruff, "Caribbean or Europe?"

Edward smirks. "Whichever one has fewer reporters and more drinks with umbrellas in them."

"You're gonna love the babymoon concept. Just wait."

He groans. "I already regret letting you name it."

Seattle feels colder.

Which is weird, considering I'm from here. I used to wear shorts in January like it was some badge of honor. But after four days in Phoenix? I came home and actually shivered. The rain hit my skin and I felt it—sharp, annoying, personal. I blamed the twins, like always. Hormones. Blood flow. Something medical-sounding.

But it's been days, and I'm still buried in sweaters, avoiding the front door like it bites. So either pregnancy has fully taken over… or something in me has shifted.

Maybe I'm not meant to be cold anymore.

Maybe I don't want to be.

Florida doesn't sound so bad.

Which is probably why Edward flew there this morning. Jasper went too. Technically, it's "just a meeting," but let's be honest—he's leaning hard. No press, no announcement, no commitment, but you can feel when something's in motion. He's not saying it out loud yet. Maybe because I'm here. Maybe because saying it makes it real.

He said he'd wait. That we'd have space. Time. But last week changed everything.

The Seahawks called him in for two days—end-of-season debriefs, meetings with the coaching staff, all that stuff he used to handle on autopilot. Day one, he came home late but still kissed me, asked if I'd eaten, curled up next to me like he was holding on. Still himself, just tired.

Day two was a different story.

He came through the door tight-jawed, eyes dull, barely spoke. When I asked how it went, he just muttered, "Fuck. Honey, this is supposed to be our time, not more damn film. When do I get a break?" Then he shut himself in the shower for almost an hour and didn't crawl into bed until I was already half-asleep.

I know how this machine works. The coach pulls the strings and Edward runs until there's nothing left in him. Always has. Long hours. No off-switch. Squeezing blood from stone.

That's never changed.

But something's cracking.

Edward used to live for this. He used to breathe it in like it made him more alive. The grind. The noise. The pressure. He wore it like armor. And everything else—meals, sleep, even Gigi—was just background static behind the roar of the game. He never flinched. Never apologized. That's who he was.

But now?

He calls me the game changer. The shift he never saw coming. And all the things he used to swallow without blinking? They catch in his throat. He's exhausted. His fuse is frayed. And the dreams he once bled for don't shine the same way anymore—not when they cost him this much. Not when they pull him away from me.

So yeah. No, he hasn't said the words out loud.

But I know him.

And he's not staying.

Babymoon was taken right from Gypsy Rose.

Where should we go?