Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer
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Bound
Tether
It's November twelfth.
Jasper lies on his bed, motionless, arms folded behind his head, eyes locked on the ceiling like it might offer an answer. The room is dim, lit only by the golden spill of a late afternoon sun that doesn't reach him. The silence is heavy. Still. But his mind isn't.
Edward's face breaks through the stillness, soft and uninvited.
A flicker of memory—Edward brushing a lock of Jasper's hair from his forehead, soft fingers, a softer smile. It was so stupid, so small, but Jasper remembers how his chest ached in that moment, how it swelled with something he didn't want to name.
Another memory—Edward frowning at him. No words, just those impossibly green eyes narrowing in quiet concern, like he could see something behind Jasper's calm facade and didn't know whether to be scared or sorry.
Then—Edward in the water. The way he sliced through the surface like it belonged to him, powerful and precise. Jasper used to watch from the stands, hidden in shadows, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. Edward had looked almost untouchable in the pool, all strength and grace—but the moment he looked at Jasper… God. He looked so pure. So open. Like nothing in the world had ever touched him wrong.
Then the under-bleacher kisses—hurried, breathless, desperate. Then, Edward's bed. Skin against skin. The way Jasper had tried not to fall apart under the power of Edward's surrender. And trust. Whether Jasper had asked for it or not.
He squeezes his eyes shut, teeth clenching.
He hates this. The flood of it. The ache.
Hates himself for not being able to shut it off. Hates how every moment with Edward feels like a knife now. Hates himself for remembering any of it. For being this weak.
The knock is so soft it almost doesn't register. A voice cuts through his silence.
"Jasper?"
His eyes flick to the door. Rosalie stands there, hand still on the frame, her face pulled tight with hesitation. She looks almost… nervous, like she might flee if he so much as raises his voice.
He doesn't.
"What?" The word is sharp but flat. No rise. No real interest.
"Can I come in?"
"You already got what you wanted." His tone doesn't shift. "What else could you possibly need from me now?"
She steps in slowly, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. Her shoulders are drawn up, defensive. Her eyes flicker—hesitant. Guilty. Ashamed.
"I'm sorry," she says after a beat, voice tentative. "I just... I thought it was the only way to protect you. And… to have a real chance—"
"You didn't have to go that far," he cuts in, voice low and too calm. "All you had to do was ask."
Rosalie's face twists in confusion.
"I would've done it," he says, eyes still locked on the ceiling, voice bitter, cold. "Because I'm your big brother. That's what big brothers do.
He finally turns to look at her, and his gaze is piercing—bone deep.
"But you didn't ask," he says. "You did what you did. And now I know better. I know exactly who you are. And I want nothing to do with you."
She flinches. "I didn't do it to hurt you."
Jasper lets out a bitter scoff. "No? Just collateral damage, then?"
Her shoulders tense. She tries again, her voice quiet. "You don't even love him."
He laughs under his breath—one sharp, bitter sound. No humor in it. But he says nothing.
"I was trying to protect you," she whispers. "From yourself."
He cuts in, flatly. "Is that all?"
She hesitates. "I—"
"If you're done," he says, sitting up, his voice flat, "Then leave. You got what you wanted. I've done my part. What else is there?"
Rosalie takes a breath like she might argue, but it catches in her chest.
"I just don't want you to hate me."
"I don't," he says, rising to his feet with calm detachment, moving to the door slowly. "I'm not angry. I'm nothing," he finishes. "Just... go."
She doesn't move at first, eyes wet, lips trembling.
Then, softly: "He didn't say yes."
Jasper's hand tightens on the doorknob.
"He asked for time," she adds.
"That's not my business," Jasper mutters. "I don't wanna know."
"I know him," she says, pushing forward despite the warning in his tone. "I know how he is. When he wants something, he doesn't back down. He fights."
Jasper's jaw flexes. "That's your problem. Not mine."
Rosalie's voice trembles. "But, if he tries—"
"He can try all he wants," he snaps, voice low and fraying. "It won't matter. So just… stop."
He pulls the door open and gestures silently for her to leave.
She steps toward him, pausing in front of the threshold. Her voice is barely a whisper now, eyes shining.
"I don't... want to lose you," she says, like she's ten years old again.
A beat. Then, softer—
"...Jazzy."
Something flickers in his eyes—sharp, dangerous, almost too fast to catch.
But he doesn't flinch. Doesn't soften.
"You don't get to call me that," he says, quietly vicious. "Not ever again."
She stands there for a breath, trembling at the edge of tears, then turns and slips out of the room.
He stands in the doorway for a moment after she's gone, fingers still curled against the wood like he's holding himself up.
Then he turns and walks to the window, gaze falling across the street.
His chest tightens.
There, at the Cullens' driveway, Edward stands with Emmett, smiling softly as they haul bags into the trunk of their father's car.
He should look away. But he can't move.
Jasper didn't know Edward was leaving.
A cold ripple cuts through him. Panic, maybe. Or regret. Something dangerously close to emotion.
Edward glances up—just briefly—and Jasper flinches like he's been burned.
He turns away from the window, shuts his eyes, steps back.
"It's over," he mutters to himself. "It's done."
He opens his eyes again and walks back toward the bed.
And he doesn't look out the window again.
…
Edward squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head.
It still stings—that Jasper didn't come.
Since the first time Edward had tied that ribbon to the trellis, Jasper had never missed a signal. Until now.
Edward had only wanted to talk. Just one honest moment before he left with Emmett for the trip.
But Jasper either didn't see the ribbon… or ignored it.
And Edward didn't know which was worse.
"I thought you'd be bouncing off the walls with excitement," Emmett says beside him. "Figured I'd have to hold you down just to get you on the plane. What's got you thinking so hard?"
Edward sighs, finally catching up to the noise of the boarding area around them. He glances at his brother, already knowing by the tone—Emmett's watching him carefully.
"Just tired," Edward says, trying to brush it off. "Didn't sleep much."
"You can sleep on the plane." Emmett bumps his shoulder lightly. "You can't fool me, little bro. I know something's up. I'm here when you're ready to talk."
Edward hesitates for half a second, then exhales, eyes still fixed on the patterned carpet beneath his shoes.
"I've been seeing someone," he says, voice low but steady. "For the last four months."
Emmett's quiet beside him, just listening—no reaction, no push, the way he's always been when Edward comes to him with something he's not quite sure how to say.
"It wasn't serious. Or… at least we said it wasn't. That was the deal. No attachments."
He pauses, gathering himself. Emmett waits.
"But three days ago, he ended it." Edward doesn't correct the pronoun fast enough. "And then last night… he kissed me."
Emmett's head tilts, just slightly. "He?" Not judging. Just… confirming.
Edward swallows, lifts his gaze slowly to meet his brother's. "Yeah," he says, soft but sure. "I… it's been a little while since I figured out I'm bisexual."
A beat of silence. Not uncomfortable. Just still. Emmett's eyes don't narrow. His face doesn't shift. He just keeps looking at Edward, like he's waiting for more if Edward wants to give it.
Edward huffs a faint, nervous breath. "Say something?"
Emmett smiles. A small, warm, real smile. "I'm not really surprised," he says with a shrug. "I mean… It never crossed my mind, but looking back… maybe it should've."
Edward blinks. "You're not… disappointed?"
Emmett shakes his head. "Nah. Come on, Eddy. Who you like—girl, guy, whoever—it doesn't change anything. Doesn't change you. Doesn't change how much I love you."
Edward's lips tug into a relieved smile, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. Emmett wraps an arm around him, pulls him into his side, and drops a kiss onto the top of his head.
Edward chuckles, leaning into him.
When they straighten up, Emmett nudges him lightly. "So… who's the guy?"
Edward glances at him sideways. "You cannot tell anyone."
Emmett raises a hand, all sincerity. "Scout's honor."
Edward sighs. "It's Jasper."
Emmett blinks. "Wait—Hale? As in eternally empty stare Rosalie's brother?"
Edward gives him a look. "Yeah."
"Seriously?"
Edward nods.
Emmett whistles low under his breath. "Damn. That kid looks like he's always in pain."
Edward's chest tightens. I think it's because he is.
Then, out loud, quieter—
"He's had a rough time. Since he came out to his parents. But… that's for another time."
Emmett's smile fades just a bit, his eyes thoughtful.
Edward exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. "I'm just… confused as hell, Em."
Before Emmett can answer, a soft chime breaks through the ambient noise of the terminal. The voice over the speaker announces boarding for their flight.
Emmett looks up at the screen, then at Edward again. "Hold the thought."
He nudges him forward. "Let's get on the plane. You can tell me everything at 30,000 feet. We'll figure it out."
Then he wiggles his brows, his broad grin returning.
Edward snorts, smiling despite himself. "You're the worst."
"I'm the best," Emmett counters, slinging an arm around Edward's shoulder as they walk toward the gate. "And you know it."
…
Edward had dreamed of Thailand for as long as he could remember—warm, sun-soaked days, water as clear as glass, food that made his senses light up, and temples that felt like stepping into a different time. And the best part? He got to share it with Emmett. His big brother made the trip unforgettable. It was everything he'd ever hoped for, and then some.
But what made it really matter was the time it gave him. The quiet, the space. He told Emmett everything—about Jasper, about Rosalie. Emmett didn't flinch. He just listened the way he always did, like Edward's words mattered. And when Edward admitted he didn't know what to do, Emmett had looked at him, eyes full of conviction, and said, "Be honest. With yourself. With them. It's the only way forward."
And then, "You need to tell Mom and Dad, Eddy. You shouldn't have to carry this alone."
Now it's Thursday night, and they're back home. Edward's stomach is twisted in knots as he sits in the living room, facing the people he loves most. Emmett is on his right—a reassuring, solid presence. Alice is on his left, arms lightly folded, her posture protective. Like they're bracing around him, just in case.
The room is still. Carlisle sits in his favorite armchair. Esme beside him on the couch. The television is off. The house is too quiet.
Edward swallows hard. "I, um…"
He stumbles, voice catching, heart hammering. His hands are cold.
Emmett's hand finds his shoulder, steadying. Edward looks at him. Emmett nods once.
Edward lifts his gaze back to his parents. His voice is soft. Hesitant.
"I… like girls. But I also like… boys."
Silence falls over the room.
Esme's brow knits. She looks at Carlisle, who meets her eyes briefly, then they both look back at Edward.
Esme is the first to speak. "Are you sure?" she asks gently, but there's something cautious in her voice.
Edward hesitates. He nods. "Yes."
Carlisle leans forward slightly, fingers steepled together, his face unreadable. "And how are you sure?"
Edward clenches his jaw for a moment, pushing through the fear. "Because I… fell for this boy," he says. "I've… also had feelings for girls before. But this… this was different… real."
Carlisle's eyes don't move from Edward's face. "You're not just confused?"
That question cuts deeper than he expects. Edward feels his throat tighten. But he forces himself to answer.
"We were seeing each other... for a while. It's over now, but… we kinda were… together."
Esme shifts. "Together how?" Her voice is tentative, a mixture of confusion and worry.
Edward glances at Emmett, then back to his mother. He gives a small, sheepish shrug, his expression almost apologetic. "Like… together."
Her eyes soften in understanding.
Carlisle rises slowly. The quiet is heavy. He doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then, finally: "I need some time."
He walks out of the room without looking back.
Edward's chest caves a little.
Esme starts to follow but stops and turns to Edward. Her voice is quiet. "Don't worry. I'll talk to him."
She leaves the room, and for a moment, it feels like everything is suspended. Still. The only sound is the clock on the wall.
Edward breathes out sharply, and that's when he realizes he'd been holding his breath the entire time.
The tears fall silently. No shaking, no sound. Just the slow, helpless slide of emotion down his cheeks.
Alice moves first, kneeling in front of him, her hands on his. "Hey. It's okay."
Emmett says nothing, just stays by his side, solid as always.
Edward shakes his head, already pushing to his feet and brushing past them. "I… I need a minute."
He walks to his room, shuts the door behind him.
Then he curls into himself on the bed, back against the headboard, arms around his pillow like it's the only thing tethering him. The tears don't stop. His mind spins.
Dad hates me.
Mom's disappointed.
He presses his forehead to the pillow and lets himself cry—quiet and alone, his chest aching.
And for a long time, that's all he does. He just feels the hurt and tries to bear it.
He doesn't come out for dinner, he stays curled on his bed, face half-buried in the pillow that still smells like the laundry detergent his mom insists on using.
Until a soft knock breaks the quiet.
"Eddie?" Alice. "I brought you a plate."
"I'm not hungry," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "I just wanna be alone."
There's a pause. Then, softly, "Okay."
He listens to her footsteps retreating. Silence again.
Minutes pass. Maybe more than minutes.
Then another knock. Gentler, but firmer.
"Edward? Can I come in?"
Esme.
He hesitates, eyes staring blankly at the opposite wall. His body feels too heavy to move. But he pulls himself up and walks slowly to the door. He opens it without a word and goes back to his bed, sitting in the same spot, curling the same way, arms wrapped around the pillow like a shield.
Esme steps inside and closes the door behind her. She moves quietly, like she's afraid any sudden motion might make him flinch. She sits on the edge of the bed, just beside him but not too close.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," she says, her voice low and warm. "I was just… surprised. That's all."
Edward stares at his knees. "Are you disappointed?" he asks, barely breathing the words.
Esme's eyes widen. "No," she says immediately. "Oh, sweetheart, no. I'm not disappointed at all."
He still doesn't look at her.
"I'm worried," she continues, "not because of you. But because… this world can be cruel. People can be cruel. And when someone is seen as different, they get hurt more. I don't want that for you. For any of you."
Edward lifts his eyes to her, unsure. "Do you… think I'm different?"
"No," she says firmly. "You're still you. My same boy. But the world might not always see it that way." She sighs, smoothing a hand over her skirt. "I just worry about what you'll have to face."
He's quiet for a while. Then, softly, "You… seemed disappointed."
Esme shakes her head. "I was just surprised. That's all. And I'm sorry for how it came out. I should've handled it better." She reaches out, hesitates, then lays a gentle hand on his arm. "But listen to me, Edward. I will always love you. No matter who you love. As long as the person you love is good to you, is kind to you—then I'm happy for you. That's all I've ever wanted. Someone who treats you well and makes you feel safe."
Edward blinks fast, his throat tight. He lets out a shaky breath. "Thank you."
He leans over and hugs her, the motion slow, tentative at first. But Esme wraps her arms around him without hesitation, holding him tightly like she used to when he was little and afraid of thunderstorms.
"I was scared," he whispers. "I thought you wouldn't love me… like this."
She pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes. "There is nothing in this world that could make me not love you, Edward. Nothing."
His face crumples.
And for the first time that night, he lets himself believe it might be okay.
Esme presses a kiss to Edward's hair before rising. "Try to eat something, okay? Your sister made you a plate, she left it in the fridge."
"I'm not hungry," Edward murmurs, his voice still thick.
She brushes his cheek gently with her fingers. "Then warm it up later if you feel like it."
Edward nods, eyes fixed somewhere near his knees. Esme lingers a second longer, as if wanting to say more, but then she simply smooths her hand over his hair once and walks out, closing the door quietly behind her.
Silence floods the room in her absence.
Edward exhales slowly, as if all the weight of the evening has finally settled in his chest. He leans back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling for a moment, then pulls himself up again with a sigh. He moves toward the bathroom, stripping off his hoodie on the way, and turns on the shower.
The hot water is grounding. It steams around him, fogging up the mirror, and for a moment, he lets the heat soften the tight knot in his chest. He stays under until his fingers prune and his mind quiets a little. When he finally steps out, he moves slowly, like everything is heavier tonight. He dresses in a clean T-shirt and flannel pants, towel-drying his hair.
Back in his room, he glances at the clock. It's later than he thought. The house is quiet now, lights dimmed. He picks up his backpack and begins to organize it for school—books stacked neatly, pens zipped into the side pocket. The rhythm calms him, a small thing he can control.
But when he finishes and sits back, a dull ache in his stomach reminds him of the plate Esme mentioned. And now, the house feels safe in its stillness. No footsteps. No voices. Just the soft ticking clock above his desk.
So he pads barefoot down the stairs and into the kitchen.
The plate is there in the fridge just like she said, covered in foil. He unwraps it and sets it in the microwave, the glow of the numbers lighting his face. When it's done, he eats quietly at the counter, fork scraping gently against the ceramic. The food is warm, but it tastes like the evening—familiar, heavy, a little hard to swallow.
His thoughts drift.
To Jasper.
To his mother's arms.
To his father's face earlier, when he left the room.
Carlisle didn't say much. But Edward saw it—something flash across his father's face that he didn't understand. He replays it over and over, trying to decipher it.
Worry? Disappointment? Sadness? Or was it just surprise?
His chest twists.
Carlisle has always been… there. A steady presence. Even if not affectionate with words, he is warm with his time. Kind in the quiet, dependable way he moves through their lives.
Edward loves him. Trusts him. And now he is afraid of breaking that.
He finishes eating, rinses his plate, and sets it in the sink. Then he turns toward the archway slowly, fingers trailing along the counter as he passes, his mind still spinning.
But just as he rounds the corner toward the stairs, he passes by Carlisle's office.
The door is ajar. Light spills into the hall, soft and golden. The room beyond is quiet.
Edward hesitates.
He stops, eyes fixed on the door, debating. He wants to talk to him. To explain. To understand. But fear holds him still. Maybe his father doesn't want to talk. Maybe it would make it worse.
So he exhales and turns, placing one foot on the first stair.
"Edward."
His name, spoken gently.
He freezes. Looks back.
Carlisle is at the office door now, hand on the frame, eyes steady.
"Can we talk?"
Edward stares at him for a moment, uncertain. Then he nods silently.
Carlisle steps aside, holding the door open gently. Edward walks in, the soft creak of the floor beneath his feet somehow deafening in the quiet. The air in the office is warm, still, carrying that familiar mix of old books and wood polish. It's comforting and intimidating all at once.
Carlisle doesn't go behind his desk. He walks past it and sits in one of the two leather armchairs near the bookshelf, leaving the other free. He rests his elbows on his knees, fingers laced, watching Edward with a quiet kind of attentiveness.
Edward hesitates a beat longer, then moves to sit down, arms folding across his chest loosely, shoulders curled in like he's bracing for something.
"I wasn't expecting you to still be awake," Carlisle says after a long moment, voice low.
Edward shrugs faintly. "Wasn't really tired."
Silence hangs between them.
"I owe you an apology," Carlisle says. "For walking out like I did earlier."
Edward's gaze flickers, then drops to his lap. "You don't have to…"
"I do," Carlisle cuts in, gently but firmly. "I should've stayed. I should've asked you questions with the intention to understand, not… filter your answers through my own fears."
Edward doesn't say anything. He just nods faintly, almost like he doesn't trust his voice.
"I'm not upset with you," Carlisle continues. "And I don't want you to think I'm ashamed of you."
Edward's throat works, his fingers tightening slightly where they rest over his arms.
"I was… caught off guard," Carlisle admits. "Not by what you told us, but by how long you must've carried it alone. That hurt. To think you felt you had to hide something that important from me."
Edward glances up, his voice tentative. "I didn't want to lose you."
Carlisle exhales slowly. "Son… I know I'm not the most emotionally expressive man. I know that. But never—not once—has there been a version of this life where I stop being your father. Where I stop loving you."
Edward's lips part slightly. His jaw tenses like he's trying to hold back more than words.
Carlisle leans forward a little more. "You are still you, Edward. Still my son. Still the boy I held in my arms the first night you were born, terrified I'd break you just by holding on too tight." His voice goes soft. "You were perfect then. You're still perfect now."
Edward's face twists, and he has to look away.
"I was just worried," Carlisle continues, more quietly. "About what the world might do to you. About how cruel it can be to anyone who doesn't fit into its neat little boxes."
Edward's voice breaks as he asks, "Do you think I'm… broken?"
Carlisle shakes his head, resolute. "No. I think you're brave. And honest. And maybe stronger than I've ever been."
Edward swallows hard. His chest is tight and his hands are trembling in his lap, but he meets his father's eyes.
"I didn't plan for it to happen," he whispers. "With him. It just did. And I didn't know how to stop feeling the way I felt."
Carlisle nods slowly. "Love isn't something we plan for. It's something we recognize. Something we choose to honor—or deny." He pauses. "I'm glad you didn't deny yours."
Edward blinks fast, tears pooling again, but he fights to hold them back. He leans forward, pressing his palms to his knees, his voice unsteady. "I thought you'd… I don't know. Be disappointed. Or angry."
"I'm neither," Carlisle says. "I'm… learning. And I hope you'll be patient with me while I do."
Edward doesn't speak. He just nods. A sharp, jerky movement. Then—
"I love you, Dad."
Carlisle's face softens. He reaches out, resting a firm hand on Edward's shoulder.
"I love you too, son. Always."
Edward's breath shudders out of him like he's been holding it for hours.
The room goes quiet again, but it's different now. Warmer. Closer.
Neither of them moves right away.
Carlisle sits back in his chair, eyes on Edward—not hard, not cold, just steady. Thoughtful.
"You said you and this boy were seeing each other for a while," he says after a moment, his voice low, almost tentative. "How long?"
Edward's fingers tighten slightly on the fabric of his pants. He glances away for a second, then answers, "Around four months."
He sees his father nod slowly, processing.
"It ended… just before my birthday," Edward adds, a bit too quickly, like he needs to put some distance between the present and what he just admitted. "We're not seeing each other anymore."
Carlisle looks at him carefully, then asks, "Did you end it?"
Edward swallows. "No. He did."
Carlisle's brow furrows slightly, a quiet pause stretching between them. "Can I ask… why?"
Edward hesitates. It's still raw, still too close. He shrugs a little, trying to seem unaffected. "He didn't really… explain. Said we needed to stop."
Carlisle doesn't respond right away. He leans forward just slightly, fingers steepled. When he speaks again, it's careful.
"Son… I have to ask… how far did the relationship go?"
Edward's chest tightens. His ears burn.
He almost lies. Almost deflects. But Carlisle hasn't judged him—not once. That steadiness in his father's gaze gives him something to hold on to.
He exhales, slow and quiet, looks down, and says, "We went all the way."
Carlisle nods once, expression unreadable. He looks down, seeming to collect his thoughts before asking, just as gently, "Were you safe? Did you treat each other well?"
Edward's eyes snap up to meet his father's.
"Yes," he says, voice firmer now. "He was… careful. He took care of me."
A pause.
"He's experienced, then…" It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," Edward confirms anyway, voice barely above a whisper. "He's… a bit older than me, but not that much."
Carlisle nods again. And this time, the smallest breath of relief seems to pass through him. He doesn't speak right away. The silence sits comfortably between them for a moment.
Carlisle leans back slightly, watching Edward with that same calm, unreadable patience. Then, softly, he asks, "Do you still have feelings for him?"
Edward's jaw tenses. He doesn't answer right away. His eyes flicker down to his hands, then back up.
"…Yeah," he admits, quiet but certain.
Carlisle nods once, slow. "Is he someone I know?"
Edward's shoulders lift slightly, defensive without meaning to be. "I… I can't tell you that."
Carlisle's head tilts, just a little, his eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but in thought. Then he speaks gently, like he's putting pieces together.
"His family," he says, not quite a question. "They don't know. Or… wouldn't approve."
Edward nods. Just once. It's small, almost imperceptible, but enough.
"I see," Carlisle says, more to himself than to Edward. He doesn't press for more, just lets it settle there.
A few seconds pass.
Carlisle notices Edward still tense, still a little guarded, even though he's opened up so much. He keeps his voice calm, quiet.
"You don't have to figure everything out tonight," he says. "And you don't have to go through any of it alone."
Edward lifts his eyes to his father's, searching, unsure what to say.
Carlisle continues, "You've always been thoughtful. Caring. You lead with your heart, even when you try not to. That hasn't changed. Nothing about this changes who you are to me."
Edward's throat tightens, the sting behind his eyes returning, but this time it doesn't overwhelm him. He lets out a shaky breath and nods once.
Carlisle leans back slightly in the chair, folding his hands together.
"If you ever have questions," he says, carefully, "about anything—relationships, or… sex—you can come to me. I may not always have perfect answers, but I'll always be honest with you. And I'll always listen."
Edward hesitates, then swallows and nods again. "Okay."
There's a long pause, not heavy—just full. Carlisle watches his son, then offers the smallest smile.
"You don't need to carry this like a secret. Not here. You're safe, Edward."
That does something. Edward looks down, blinking quickly, and then clears his throat.
"Thanks, Dad."
Carlisle reaches out, places a steady hand on Edward's shoulder. "Always."
He gives it a light squeeze before letting go.
"Alright," Carlisle says kindly. "It's late."
Edward stands. Carlisle does too, slower. They walk to the office door together, and just as Edward is about to step out, Carlisle calls softly, "Son?"
Edward glances back.
"I'm proud of you."
Edward freezes, caught by the weight of it. Carlisle doesn't elaborate. He just holds his gaze.
Edward doesn't respond with words—just a small nod, but this one feels full of everything he can't say yet.
And then he climbs the stairs.
…
The parking lot is already half full when Edward pulls into a parking spot—except this time, it's his car he's stepping out of, not the passenger seat of Alice's.
It's a small thing, maybe, but it feels like a shift. Like something has quietly changed and isn't going back.
The moment he shuts the door, a familiar voice cuts across the lot.
"E!"
He barely has time to turn before Rosalie is on him, arms around his neck, nearly knocking the air out of his lungs. He laughs, holding her with a kind of surprised steadiness.
"We literally talked on the phone yesterday," he says, grinning.
"Not the same," she says, pulling back to study him. "You were gone for nine days!"
He's about to answer when footsteps approach behind her.
Jasper.
He's holding out Rosalie's bag—she must've dropped it in his truck before rushing to Edward. His expression is unreadable, eyes flicking to Edward for a breath of a second before landing back on Rosalie.
"You left your bag," he says simply, his voice even.
Rosalie's posture shifts. Not enough for anyone to notice unless they know her. A subtle drop of her gaze. A quiet caution.
"Thanks," she says, voice quiet but composed as she takes the bag. She doesn't meet his eyes.
Jasper doesn't linger. "Don't wait up for me," he says. "I'll be at practice till late."
She nods once. "Okay."
Then Jasper looks at Edward again—just a glance, with a subtle jerk of his chin.
"Cullen," he says.
Edward swallows. "Hey."
Jasper turns and walks toward the building without looking back.
Edward stands frozen for a beat, breath caught somewhere in his throat. God, he missed him. Just seeing him again—he feels like his whole chest is trembling, like something inside him was waiting for that moment without realizing it.
"You okay?" Rosalie asks, nudging him gently.
He nods, blinking away the weight in his chest. "Yeah. Just… yeah."
"Well," she says, looping her arm through his, "I need a full debrief. Thailand. Right now."
Edward chuckles, letting her pull him along.
"You already know everything. We talked the whole time."
"I want the extended cut," she insists. "Behind-the-scenes, commentary, bloopers—give it all."
They're halfway to the building when Edward turns his head just slightly, gaze slipping back to where Jasper disappeared. He doesn't see him, doesn't find him.
Jasper's with the team now, easy in the crowd, shoulders squared, voice low.
But what Edward doesn't see—what he doesn't feel just yet—is that across the stretch of distance between them, he is watching.
Still.
Quietly.
…
The day moves the way days tend to do—too slow when he's looking forward, too fast when he needs more time.
Edward does what he has to. Classes blur together, though he keeps up without missing a beat, thanks to Rosalie's meticulous updates and his own tendency to overprepare. At lunch, everyone wants to know everything—how was the food, the beaches, the people, was it true what they say about full moon parties—and Edward laughs through most of it, smiling easily even when his mind keeps drifting to amber eyes and sharp cheekbones and the last moment they touched.
Later, he and Rosalie sit under the elm tree by the gym, talking trash and trading sarcastic theories about their classmates. It feels like slipping into something familiar and easy again, until she gives him that look—soft, a little serious, patient.
She doesn't say it. She doesn't have to.
You promised an answer.
He doesn't give it yet.
Swim practice helps—nothing untangles his head quite like the silence under water, the burn in his lungs, the clean lines of motion. For a little while, he forgets how heavy everything feels.
He showers after, towel slung over his neck, hair damp. He's halfway out of the locker room when he hears it.
Shouts. Whistles. The thump of cleats on turf.
Football practice.
He pauses, fingers tightening around the strap of his gym bag.
I'll be at practice till late.
Jasper's voice, earlier that morning.
Edward shifts his weight, thinking about just going home. He's tired. There's homework waiting, and a quiet house, and maybe he could call Emmett again just to hear someone say you've got this.
But the sound of cleats carries across the hall. And so does something else.
A memory. Or maybe a promise.
You're not going to wait around for him to be ready forever, are you?
No, he'd told Emmett, voice clear across the hotel room. I'm not.
His feet are moving before he finishes thinking.
Out through the side doors. Down the back stairs. Across the quiet edge of the parking lot.
The lights from the field are on—blazing bright against the deepening November sky, casting long shadows on the turf. The team is running drills, their voices sharp and focused. From this distance, they're just movement and color and sound.
But Edward sees him.
Number 11. Running routes like his life depends on it. Focused. Fast. That familiar lean, fluid strength in every line of his body.
Jasper.
Edward stops at the fence line, his breath catching in his throat, watching. That quiet pride swells again in his chest, real and strange and heavy.
He doesn't know what it means. Only that it's his. Jasper is his. Or he was.
And Edward is done pretending he's okay with anything less.
He sees the moment Jasper notices him.
It's subtle—almost imperceptible to anyone else—but Edward knows him too well. The way Jasper stumbles, barely, on the landing of a jump, the twitch in his jaw, the flick of his head toward the fence where Edward stands—it's not nothing. It's not indifference.
Jasper knows he's there.
So Edward stays.
He waits for another glance—one more fleeting moment when those unreadable amber eyes land on him. And when it comes, brief as a breath, Edward doesn't hesitate. He turns and walks toward the bleachers.
Their spot. Where it all started unfolding. And maybe—if he's lucky—where it could begin again.
The cold ground bites through his sweats as he sits beneath the bleachers, back pressed to one of the support beams. His heart is a slow ache behind his ribs, nervousness rising with each minute. He rubs his palms on his knees—sweaty, trembling—and stares out at the dying light over the field.
He's terrified Jasper won't come.
Like that night. Their birthday. The ribbon. The waiting.
The sounds of the field shift. Practice is ending. Voices call out, whistles blow, and cleats thud toward the locker room. Edward stands, brushing gravel from his hands, breath tight in his chest. One minute. Then two.
Then—
Cleats.
Steady, measured.
He feels the shift before he hears the breath. Feels the pressure of presence before the voice.
He turns.
Jasper stands a few feet away, chest rising and falling with post-practice breath, his face blank but his jaw tight. His hands are still taped, and his knuckles are red.
"What do you want?" Jasper asks, voice flat.
The words land harder than they should, but Edward doesn't let them show. He just exhales, slow and careful, and grounds himself.
"Why didn't you come?" he asks.
There's no confusion in Jasper's eyes. He knows exactly what Edward means.
Jasper lifts a shoulder, dry. "It was over. Why would I?"
Edward nods, taking it in. Then takes a step closer.
Jasper doesn't move.
"I missed you," Edward says. "I miss you. And I want it back. Us."
Jasper doesn't flinch, but there's something behind his eyes now. Not softness—something stirring. His hands clench slightly.
"That's not going to happen," he says, low.
Edward studies him. Then, quieter: "I know you felt something."
Jasper scoffs. The sound is brittle. "You're hot. The sex was good. Of course I felt something." A pause. Sharper now—"Lust."
Edward winces, just a little. But he stands his ground.
"It was more than that."
"You think it was." Jasper's voice hardens. "But it was just physical, Edward. Attraction. Heat. That's all." A pause. Then, colder—"So if this is what you came for, you're wasting your time. We're never happening again."
It stings, but Edward breathes through it. Doesn't budge.
Another step forward.
Another inch of space closed.
And still, Jasper doesn't move away.
Edward raises a hand, slow, tentative, and brushes his fingers along Jasper's jaw. He sees the flicker—Jasper's eyelids flutter just once before he clenches everything back into place.
"Tell me you're not feeling it," Edward whispers.
Jasper doesn't answer.
"I miss kissing you," Edward says, barely more than breath.
He rises up on his toes, heart racing, and presses his lips to Jasper's.
It's soft. Lingering. And for a second—for one impossible second—Jasper breathes into it. His lips almost part. Almost.
Then he steps back.
Not sharply. Not angrily.
But enough.
Edward's breath catches.
"Why are you resisting?" he asks.
Jasper looks away for a beat. Then back. His face is tight, jaw tense. "Forget me."
"I won't."
Jasper's eyes flash, and Edward takes one last step, now toe to toe.
"I'll fight for you," Edward says. "Even if I have to fight you."
For the first time, Jasper falters.
He looks at Edward like he wants to say something else. But instead, he sighs and shakes his head.
"It's your time to waste."
And just like that, he turns and walks away.
Edward watches him go, heart pounding.
He should feel shattered. But he doesn't.
Because Jasper didn't walk away fast. Because he didn't pull back from the kiss like it meant nothing. Because his hands were shaking, just a little, like Edward's.
He doesn't feel defeated.
He feels ready.
Because now he knows what he's fighting against.
And more importantly—who he's fighting for.
…
Laughter drifts through the crisp afternoon air, carried on the light breeze that stirs golden leaves across the Cullen backyard. The pool glints beneath the late-November sun—warm, surprisingly strong for fall in Washington D.C., casting a hazy shimmer across the surface. It's one of those rare Saturdays that feel borrowed from summer, all sunlight and soft shadows, but edged with the promise of winter creeping closer.
Edward sits at the edge of the pool, feet swaying in the water. Around him, Bella and Leah are shoulder to shoulder with Rosalie, trading stories and teasing each other between bursts of laughter. Tyler, Seth, and Eric are roughhousing in the deep end, while Jacob and Sam man the grill, filling the air with the comforting scent of charred meat and seasoned corn. On the surface, it's a perfect afternoon.
But Edward isn't present. Not really.
He smiles when he should. Nods when someone calls his name. Even laughs, sometimes, when the moment demands it. But his heart isn't in it. Because every second he's not doing something about Jasper feels like a second slipping through his fingers.
He wants to fight for him.
The decision sits like a fire under his ribs—clear, urgent, alive. He wants Jasper. Needs to be near him. And every time he thinks about the way he pulled back, about the silence between them, something clenches deep in his chest.
And then there's Rosalie.
He can feel her beside him, the way she's watching him sometimes when she thinks he doesn't notice. Patient, poised, waiting. She's going to ask. She has to. And when she does, he'll have to answer. Honestly. Carefully. He'll have to break her heart, even if he doesn't want to. Even if it's the last thing he wants to do.
By midafternoon, the tone of the gathering shifts. From casual hangout to something more festive. Alice arrives through the side gate, her sunglasses perched on her head. She's talking animatedly to her boyfriend, Derek, who walks beside her with his usual easy charm. Behind them trail the rest of their group—Jace, Harper, Lila…
…and Jasper.
Edward's heart lurches.
Jasper is dressed simply—jeans, a white T-shirt, his jacket slung over one shoulder—but he might as well have stepped out of Edward's memory and straight into the sun. He's talking to Derek and Jace, his usual unreadable calm settled over his face. But Edward feels it—like always. That low hum, that gravity that exists only between them. Like a wire stretched tight.
He doesn't look at Jasper directly. Can't. But every time he lets his gaze drift near, Jasper isn't looking. Still, Edward knows.
He's being watched.
More people slip into the pool. Someone puts on music. Esme appears with trays of refreshments, smiling brightly as she offers snacks and compliments the setup. She lingers just long enough to make the rounds, warmth radiating from her like sunlight before she disappears back into the house.
Everyone blends together—friends from different circles moving easily among each other. Conversation overlaps with splashing and laughter, drinks clink, towels are passed. But Edward feels like he's behind glass, watching his own life from the outside.
And still, that quiet tension holds. Jasper's presence presses in on him from across the yard like an invisible thread pulling tight.
When the sun begins to dip, washing the sky in that golden-blue blend of fall dusk, Rosalie appears at his side.
Her hand slips into his, warm, sure.
"Come walk with me?" she says.
Edward swallows, nods, and follows her without a word.
They move across the lawn in silence, past the swaying hedges and the half-bare trees, down toward Esme's garden. The koi pond glistens ahead, reflecting the fading light in slow ripples. Cicadas buzz gently from the bushes, the wind rustling through dry leaves overhead.
They sit on the bench together. For a moment, neither speaks.
Rosalie is the one to break the silence, voice soft but steady. "You know what this is."
Edward lets out a slow breath. "Yeah."
She turns to face him slightly, waiting.
"I don't want to lose what we have," he says, and his voice is quieter than he means it to be. "Our friendship... it's one of the most important things in my life."
Rosalie nods. Her eyes are kind, but serious. "I know. But I also know what we could be. I know you feel it too, Edward. We match. We've always matched."
And he can't argue with that. Not fully. In some ways, she's right. Their bond makes sense. The rhythm between them has always been easy.
But this isn't about sense.
"I get what you're saying," he says. "I really do. And I care about you so much, Rosalie. That's why this is hard. I don't want to hurt you."
She tilts her head. "Then what is it?"
He hesitates. Looks out over the pond. Then, carefully, he draws a breath and lets it go.
"There's something I need to tell you."
Rosalie nods, ready.
"I'm bi," he says.
A beat. She doesn't react, not yet.
"And I found that out because... I fell in love with someone."
There it is. The breath she catches. The soft, almost-whispered, "In love?"
Edward nods. "Yeah."
She swallows, and he sees the shimmer of emotion in her eyes.
"I didn't mean for it to happen. And I never wanted to lie to you. But this… this isn't something I can control."
Rosalie is quiet for a long moment. Then she asks, gently, "Who is it?"
Edward hesitates. The answer is there on his tongue, but it stays unspoken.
"I can't tell you," he says, voice soft. "I need to protect him."
Her brows pull together. "I don't understand."
"He's not out," Edward explains, carefully. "And it's not my place. I have to respect that."
Rosalie's mouth parts, then presses into a thin line. She nods once, slow. "Okay. I hear you." Her voice wavers, just a little, like she's holding the rest back. "But I also know you have feelings for me, Edward. You've shown me that. In the way you look at me. The way you hold me sometimes, even when you're not thinking about it."
"I do," Edward says, quietly but without hesitation. "I love you."
She gives a small, pained smile and shakes her head. "Not like that. Not just like that. I know the difference, and I've seen glimpses of it in you—of something more."
Edward doesn't answer. He doesn't know how to. Because maybe she's wrong. Maybe she's right. Maybe there is something there, buried under the weight of everything else.
Rosalie leans in just slightly, her eyes never leaving his. "All I'm asking for is a chance to show you. To show us. And if I'm wrong… then I'll walk away. I promise." She swallows. "But if I'm not… we'll both know."
She hesitates, searching his face, softer now. "Kiss me."
Her voice isn't demanding. It's not begging. It's just honest. A single thread of hope laid bare between them.
He hesitates.
Not because he doesn't know what to say—he does. He already told her the truth. But something about the way she's looking at him now, the quiet strength in her voice, makes it harder to just walk away.
It feels like such a small thing. A kiss. Just a kiss.
Maybe it's a kindness, one last thread to hold onto before it all falls apart. Maybe it'll give her the clarity she needs. Maybe it'll help her understand what he already knows.
That his heart isn't hers to hold. Not in the way she wants.
And still… there's a part of him—guilty, aching, unsure—that wonders if she's right. If there really is something there, buried somewhere beneath the history, the closeness, the love that's always been real, even if it isn't romantic.
So he nods, slowly.
"Okay."
They sit in silence for a beat longer, just watching each other. The fading light paints her golden, softening every edge. There's a quiet vulnerability in her eyes—not desperation, just hope.
Edward shifts, slowly, almost without thinking. His hand rises to her face, fingers steady even as his heart stirs uneasily in his chest. He cups her cheek gently, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw, then her cheekbone, memorizing the warmth of her skin beneath his touch.
He leans in.
Their lips meet.
At first, it's soft. Barely a whisper. Just a touch. A question asked with no words.
And then—something shifts.
Not fireworks. Not the dizzying, breathless ache he knows too well with Jasper. But there's something. A warmth that opens slowly in his chest. Steady. Honest.
Rosalie inhales softly, almost soundless, and her mouth parts beneath his. Her hand slides up his chest, fingers brushing the hollow of his throat. The kiss deepens—not rushed, not frantic, but deliberate, slow, and searching.
Edward lets it happen. No walls. No resistance. He lets himself sink into the moment. Not to test or compare. Just to be inside it.
Her lips are so soft. The way she moves them—gentle, coaxing—draws something out of him, something surprising.
He likes the way she kisses.
It's not the fire Jasper lights in him—the kind that burns from the inside out, unrelenting. But this... this is something else. Grounded. Intimate. Real.
It's not everything. But it's not nothing.
It's a truth of its own.
The kiss lingers—unrushed. Rosalie shifts closer, her other hand slipping behind his neck, fingers threading into his hair. Edward allows it, lets himself be drawn in, lets the warmth of her mouth and the rhythm of their breath pull him deeper.
Not with urgency, but with something gentler. An exploration. An answer to a question he has never dared to ask.
And still, it's not Jasper. It never could be.
But it's something.
And as their mouths move together in that quiet garden glow, as the world fades and the kiss carries on, Edward realizes he doesn't feel relief. He doesn't feel regret.
Just a quiet, unexpected clarity.
Neither of them hears the soft shift of grass nearby.
Neither sees the figure standing just beyond the trees, still and silent, caught in the slanting gold of the setting sun.
Amber eyes fixed on them.
Watching.
…
He's back by the pool now.
Noise, movement, heat clinging to his skin. Jace's voice filters in and out beside him, saying something about Harper's last text, something about tequila and bad decisions, but it doesn't land. Nothing lands.
Jasper nods at the right moments, keeps his expression locked in neutral, fingers trailing through the grass like he's calm. Like he's not still hearing the crunch of leaves under his shoes when he backed away. Like his chest doesn't still feel like it's splitting clean down the middle.
He hadn't meant to go looking.
He didn't even realize he was moving until he was halfway across the damn lawn.
Just noticed Edward was gone. Then Rosalie. Then—gone.
Like something pulled at his spine, sharp and sudden. Like gravity decided it had teeth.
He doesn't know what he was expecting.
Doesn't know what the hell he thought he was doing.
It was just movement. Just a twitch in the gut. Just—
Just that ache that always hits when Edward's not in the room.
Then the garden.
That stupid bench by the fish pond.
Their backs were to him, but not for long.
The kiss is what hooks in his memory, playing back like it's got claws.
Edward's hand. Rosalie's lips. That soft, slow press like it meant something. Like it wasn't the first time they'd imagined it.
Jasper looks down. He can still feel how fast he turned.
How the blood roared in his ears.
How cold the world went.
Not jealous.
That's not what this is.
But his stomach flipped like he was gonna throw up, and his chest felt too tight, and he didn't even think. Just moved. Fast. Back the way he came. Like he could outrun it.
Now he's here. Sitting. Smiling when he needs to. Nodding at the right lines. Keeping his mouth shut.
And then it happens. The lull.
Jasper glances up—
and there they are.
Edward and Rosalie, walking back slow. Hand in hand.
Not talking. Not laughing.
Just that soft thing sitting on both their faces.
Jasper swallows hard. Looks away before anyone notices.
Before his facial expression does something stupid.
He pushes the heels of his palms into the ground and says something to Jace. Doesn't even hear what it is.
Doesn't matter.
He's already building the wall higher.
Because this—
Whatever that was—
That's none of his business.
.
.
.
A/N: If you're curious about my visualization of the main characters (Edward and Jasper), check the link below to see them. Of course, your imagination might be better than mine.
Edward (at 15) https/drive./file/d/1g4WmeD3tJwxMFwtObsQZwqb-czbYZg8R/view?usp=sharing
Jasper (at 17) https/drive./file/d/1Cy91zMqeenRASuNHwHYQk3W3Oj56lO_G/view?usp=sharing