AN: It's super long, but hopefully you like it! And about another 10-12 chapters, and I'll be wrapping it up.
Thanks for all your reviews! They mean the world to me.
Brina and May for pre-reading. You ladies rock.
SM owns Twilight. I own a pain in the arse cat.
Chapter Twenty-Six
-Together We Fall. Shaking. Clinging. Coming Home-
He's not moving.
I thought—I swore—he rolled, or shifted, or something, but… no. He's just there. In the same spot he landed. Face-down on the field. Still. So still.
How long has it been? Seconds? Minutes? I can't think. My brain's short-circuiting. My hands are pressed flat to the glass but I don't feel it. I don't feel anything except this horrible, icy panic crawling up my spine.
This can't be happening. Not to him.
Not to Edward.
He's hurt.
Oh God, he's hurt.
And my heart—it's not even beating right, it's just slamming around in my chest like it's trying to escape. I can't breathe. I should breathe, I should move, I should scream or run or something, but I'm just frozen here, locked in place like someone poured cement in my veins.
The whole stadium is dead quiet. Not silent, not peaceful—wrong. Like the air's been sucked out of the world. No cheering. No booing. No stupid announcers filling the space. Just this awful, echoing silence.
Then the replay hits the screen.
Edward in the pocket. Calm. Confident. God, that throw—it's perfect. A perfect spiral flying like poetry. And then—
The hit.
From the side. Full speed. I hear the crack through the speakers, like bones snapping in half. His whole body slams down, his shoulder twisted under him, helmet jerking hard.
I want to look away. I can't.
The live feed comes back and he's still down.
Still.
Trainers are sprinting across the grass. The players drop to their knees. His teammates are surrounding him, eyes flashing, like they're ready to fight someone. I think I might be too.
The announcers start talking—concussion, shoulder damage, throwing arm—like they know anything.
I don't care.
I don't care about any of it.
He's not moving.
"Come on, baby," I whisper, so soft I can barely hear myself. "Please. Please move."
And then—
His knee shifts. Just a little. But I see it.
Then his fingers scrape the turf. Curl. His head lifts.
And I lose it. I'm crying before I even know I started, tears sliding hot and fast down my cheeks.
He pushes up. Slow. First to his elbows. Then one knee.
I press closer to the glass, chest aching, eyes wide like I can hold him together just by watching him hard enough.
The trainers are talking, waving their hands, trying to make him lie back down. But I know that look. That stubborn set to his shoulders. That "I'm fine" even when he's definitely, totally not.
Edward Cullen isn't done.
He waves them off. Once.
They try again.
He waves them off again. Sharper this time. Fierce.
And I almost laugh through my tears. Because that's him.
That's my Edward.
His jaw is tight. That stubborn, dangerous spark is lit behind his eyes, the one I've seen a thousand times—usually when he's pissed off or about to do something reckless. But this? This is different. This is him choosing to fight through whatever pain he's in, and it terrifies me.
One of the coaches storms over, screaming at him, waving his arms like a maniac. His face is so red it looks painful. They want to pull Edward out. They should pull him out.
He just shakes his head. One sharp, final no.
And then—he stands.
Just like that.
The stadium explodes. I swear the whole world shakes. It's this huge, crashing sound, like the breath everyone was holding finally came rushing out all at once. It's deafening. Wild. Like the earth itself is cheering for him.
But Edward doesn't soak it in. He doesn't wave or acknowledge the noise. He just stands there—still hunched a little, still holding his ribs—but tall. Steady. Breathing hard.
Alive.
Oh, God, he's okay. He's not okay, not really, but he's standing. And that counts for something.
The camera zooms in on him and the coach again. They're in each other's faces, yelling. Edward doesn't flinch. His lips are moving fast, sharp. He's not backing down. I can't hear a single word but I know that tone. He's not asking. He's telling.
And finally, the coach throws up his hands and walks off in total defeat.
I grab Alice's hand without even thinking. She squeezes tight like she knows I'm barely holding it together.
"Oh my God," she whispers. "He's staying in."
He's limping, yeah. Every step he takes looks like it hurts, but he's still in charge. The guys rally around him. Garrett slaps him on the shoulder. Laurent leans in, says something with a grin, and Edward—Edward actually grins back. It's faint, crooked, reckless. But it's there.
And that's when I almost lose it again.
Because I love him.
I love him so much I can barely breathe.
The helmet is back on. Standing in the huddle. Calm. Focused. Looking like he's made of steel.
Alice leans over. "This is the dumbest—and hottest—thing I've ever seen."
I can't even laugh. My throat's too tight.
Because this isn't just a game. Not to him. Not to me.
This is Edward Cullen refusing to lose. Refusing to let go.
The crowd is roaring. The suite is completely still. We're all locked in, leaning forward, hearts in our mouths.
Twenty-nine yards.
One minute.
Last chance.
The ball snaps. Edward takes it. Drops back. Fast. His feet move like magic like he's dancing with fire. The pocket caves in around him and I stop breathing—but he slips out, just enough.
And fires.
A bullet across the middle.
Caught. Garrett. First down.
No huddle. No hesitation. He's back at the line before the officials even finish placing the ball.
He's not waiting.
He's not buying time.
He's taking it.
Because Edward is gonna fight for every single second left on that clock—like he's fighting for us.
Another play.
Another perfect throw.
They're past midfield now, and I can't look anywhere but him. Not the scoreboard, not the clock ticking down in the corner, not even the defense charging at him like wolves.
Just him.
The way he moves.
He's not stepping into his throws all the way. I can see it. His body flinches when his feet hit the ground, but every pass still cuts through the air like it was born to. Smooth. Dead-on. Like pain doesn't matter. It never had a say.
I don't know how he's still out there.
I don't know how he hasn't fallen over.
We're in the red zone now. Inside the twenty.
And the noise? It's not just loud. It's pressure. It's this crashing, vibrating wave I can feel in my ribs, in the glass, in my teeth. The whole stadium is one heartbeat, pulsing louder and louder.
Thirty-two seconds left.
We're down by four.
No timeouts.
Edward's back in the huddle. Helmet on, jersey coming untucked, one sleeve nearly ripped off. He's limping more now, and his throwing arm looks tight. Wrong. But he's not coming out, and his O-line is protecting him like their lives depend on it—like they know exactly what's at stake.
I press my forehead to the glass, my palms flat and cold. I don't even realize I'm holding my breath until my chest starts to ache.
Then he looks up.
Just for a second.
Right at the suite.
And I swear—I swear—he sees me.
Then he turns. Drops into shotgun.
Twenty-four-yard line.
Second and ten.
The ball snaps.
The defense explodes off the line—fast brutal and terrifying. I flinch. I can't help it.
But Edward doesn't.
He stays calm. Light on his feet. Eyes scanning. The pressure is coming, but his line holds. God, they hold. Like a wall of stone.
He throws.
And it's beautiful.
A spiral flying toward the end zone like it knows where to land.
Time slows.
The crowd leans forward. All of us holding our breath.
Garrett catches it.
Both feet in.
Touchdown.
The stadium erupts.
Confetti blasts into the air, music hits like a wave, people are jumping and shouting and hugging each other—and I think someone might be calling my name but I can't hear anything over the sound of my own heart breaking wide open with relief.
Because he did it.
Edward did it.
Alice grabs my arm. "Go!"
Emmett's already throwing the door open so hard it smacks the wall. "Go, B!"
Charlie doesn't even speak—just gives me that look. That dad look. The one that means, if you don't run, I will personally carry you there myself.
So I run.
Like full sprint, heart-in-my-throat, don't-stop-until-you-find-him kind of run.
The hallway is pure madness. People are screaming, hugging, jumping up and down. Confetti's still falling from the ceiling like it's snowing gold. Cameras flash. The roar from the stadium hasn't let up.
Because the Seahawks just won the freaking Super Bowl.
Because Edward just won the freaking Super Bowl.
And I need him.
I need to see him, touch him, grab his face, and kiss him so hard he forgets his own name. I need to feel his arms around me. His heartbeat pounding under my hands.
I'm halfway down the corridor when—"Ma'am, STOP."
A wall of muscle in a yellow security jacket steps into my path. Big. Stern. Not budging.
"No—no, please, I have to get through!" I gasp, skidding to a stop. My chest is heaving. "That's my boyfriend down there, I need to get to him—"
"Only authorized personnel are allowed past this point."
"I am authorized—I'm—I'm Bella!"
His face doesn't change.
"I—I have to get to the field," I pant, trying to move around him, but he shifts, blocking me again like we're doing some horrible dance.
"You need to turn around right now," he says, all calm and firm and maddening.
"You don't understand, that's my—"
"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you—"
"HEY!"
The shout echoes like a gunshot.
Jasper.
Storming down the hallway like some southern angel of vengeance, suit jacket flapping, eyes blazing.
"Step aside," he growls, voice low and dangerous, like he's one second away from making this real ugly. "She's with me."
The guard hesitates.
"I said, MOVE."
Jasper flashes a badge I didn't even know he had. Probably fake. Doesn't matter. It works.
The guy shifts. Just a little. And I lose it. I shove past him with tears blurring my vision, legs pumping like I'm breaking out of prison.
Jasper's right behind me, shouting something—clearing a path, throwing elbows, blocking anyone who so much as looks at me sideways. Security tries to follow. Someone yells my name.
I don't care.
All I see is that tunnel and I burst into it like it's oxygen.
The bright lights hit my face, and I squint, trying to block the glare. Once my vision gets clear, I see him. He's swallowed in chaos. Teammates yelling, reporters swarming, cameras flashing like a lightning storm. Everyone wants him. Everyone's shouting his name, grabbing at his shoulders, reaching for a soundbite or a hug or a piece of history.
But he's not listening.
His head turns, scanning the field, sharp and wild, like he's searching for something that's slipping through his fingers. Like none of it matters...until his eyes land on me.
Everything stops.
His body jolts, like I've sucker-punched him from across the field. And he moves. Fast. Desperate.
Edward tears through the crowd like he's possessed. Swats a camera out of his face. Shrugs off a trainer trying to tape up his wrist. Darts around people like they're cones, like nothing in the world is going to keep him from getting to me.
Then—he's here.
And oh my God.
He looks beat up.
His jersey's half untucked, grass-stained, and clinging to him with sweat. One sleeve's shredded like someone tried to rip it off mid-play. His helmet's gone, his hair a complete disaster—wet, wild, curling at his temples. Glitter sticks to the sweat on his face. There's a smear of blood drying on the corner of his mouth, a nasty bruise swelling under one eye, and his lip is split just enough to make my stomach twist.
But his eyes are glowing with something fierce and locked only on me.
"Hi—" I say as Edward grabs me with every last ounce of strength he's got.
His arms wrap around me, unrelenting, shaking just slightly from adrenaline or pain or maybe just relief. He yanks me in so fast, so hard, I can barely catch my breath.
Edward's mouth finds mine. And—yeah. It's not cute. His lips are rough. His breath's all over the place. His hands are everywhere. And the kiss—God, it's messy. It's too fast, too hard, and kind of uncoordinated, and I don't even care. It's everything we've been shoving down. Every "I miss you" "I love you" and "Don't ever leave again" wrapped up in one desperate, slightly bruising kiss.
I melt. I break. I swear my knees actually buckle.
My hands fly to his shoulders, and he flinches.
"Oh shoot—sorry—" I pull back an inch, panicked, but he just shakes his head.
"Don't care," he breathes. "I'm fine. Just—fuck!"
We're both panting like we just survived an apocalypse, which—honestly? Not far off.
"You scared me to death," I whisper.
His forehead drops to mine. "You and me both."
"You okay?"
He laughs. Kind of. More like a dry, painful sound that might've started as a groan. "No." He tips his head and meets my eyes. "But we won."
I let out this weird half-sob laugh. The kind that makes your chest feel too small for your heart. I can't stop touching him—my fingers drift over his jaw, his cheek, the sweat-damp front of his jersey. I need to feel every inch, need to prove to myself that he's real and breathing and mine.
"You weren't getting up." My throat tightens. "I thought—"
"I didn't think I would," he says, softer now. The kind of soft that stings. Then, barely a breath: "But I saw you."
My heart just collapses.
"You saw me?"
"I've always seen you, Bruiser." Edward smiles weakly, then tucks a stray hair behind my ear and leans down, kissing me again. It's slower. More steady. He's not crashing into me this time. It's not adrenaline. This is something else. Something quieter. Something real.
His fingers tighten at my back, clinging to me as if I might disappear. His chest is still rising too fast, his heartbeat hammering against mine like it's trying to break through. It's overwhelming, but he's my home, the one constant tether that pulls us back from the edge.
Life continues to roar in the background but to me? It falls silent. Every scream, every flash, every camera and trophy and piece of confetti raining down like it's New Year's just...poof! Gone, fading away.
Because he's the center of everything.
Only Edward can quiet my mind and set fire to my soul.
I want to stay.
Just like this.
But I can't.
This is his moment.
He earned it. He bled for it. He darn near broke himself for it.
With our bodies pressed together, arms still locked tight, I lean back just enough to break the kiss and whisper against his lips, "Babe, you can't keep the world waiting."
Edward doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. And for a second, I really think he's just gonna blow it all off. But then his jaw flexes. That stubborn, sharp edge flickers across his face—restraint, exhaustion, maybe pain.
He nods. Just once. And he lets go. Kind of. His hand catches mine, fingers lacing tight like he's not ready to lose contact just yet. He takes a step back, tugging gently, his eyes never leaving mine—asking me to come with him, to step back into the flash and the wild chaos of victory with him.
I follow. How could I not? His smile is too beautiful, too raw and boyish and wide, teeth flashing through all the bruises, fatigue, and sweat.
"YO, E!"
Emmett's voice hits the field like a cannon blast. Deep. Loud. Impossible to ignore. It bulldozes right over the crowd noise, the music, the fireworks, everything. Like somehow, of course, Emmett's the one human being louder than a Super Bowl.
Edward flinches. Just barely.
His eyes flick over his shoulder, jaw tightening—like for half a second, he's ready to tell someone off for interrupting this. Us.
Then he sees who it is.
And that flicker of annoyance disappears so fast, it's like it was never there.
We both turn at the same time.
And there they are.
My whole chaotic, determined, glitter-smeared family.
Jasper's charging forward like he owns the field, sharp-eyed and locked in, clearing a path through security and staff like they're obstacles in his way—not people with actual jobs. He's got this don't-mess-with-me energy that makes the crowd part without even realizing they're doing it.
Alice is right behind him, clutching Charlie's arm like she might float off without the anchor. Her hair's a total disaster—half glitter, half wind—but she's glowing. Heels sinking into the turf, dress wrinkled, smile wide. But her eyes? Laser-focused. Like she's scanning every inch of this moment, holding it all in her tiny, unshakable brain.
Emmett's got his arms spread like he's either about to hug someone or body-check a ref. His grin is unhinged in the best way, cheeks red, hat missing, voice already revving up for another round of yelling like this is a WWE event and not the biggest football game on Earth.
Charlie's walking like he doesn't want to be here like he didn't just push through god-knows-how-many security checkpoints to get down to this field. His jaw's locked, mustache twitching, and he's got that usual cop-stiffness in his shoulders. But his eyes—his eyes are soft and wet at the corners.
"Holy shit, bro," Emmett breathes when he finally reaches us, eyes wide, adrenaline still riding high. "That was insane. You made that throw on one leg?"
Edward chuckles, breathless, half-leaning on me. "Felt like zero legs, honestly."
Emmett's grin falters just slightly as his gaze flicks to Edward's shoulder. "You good?"
"I'm good," Edward says, voice hoarse. "Just sore. Worth it."
Alice moves in, finally tearing her gaze from the field to look him over, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Are you sure? That shoulder—"
Edward cuts her a look. "I'm fine. I swear."
Then Charlie's there, and for once, he doesn't hesitate. He reaches out and claps Edward on the back—hard. Maybe a little too hard.
"Proud of you, kid," he says, voice gruff, but steady.
Edward nods. "Thanks, Chief." His smile is tired now. Softer.
Garrett jogs up, helmet tucked under one arm, urgency written all over his face.
"We gotta go, man. They're lining up."
Edward gives a sharp nod but turns to me.
One more kiss.
Not hungry or wild this time. Just a soft kiss. Gentle, lingering. His lips warm, his breath steady, fingers brushing over mine like he's trying to memorize every detail.
"See you soon," he says, voice low and close.
"Go get your trophy," I whisper.
He smiles—that crooked, tired little smile that still knocks the air out of me.
His hands drift down my arms, slow, reluctant before he finally lets go.
As he starts to turn, I give him a light swat on the butt.
"Go," I tease, "before someone else claims MVP."
He shoots me a grin over his shoulder, all mischief and exhaustion and way too much swagger for someone who just got flattened twenty minutes ago.
And then he disappears, swallowed up by the chaos—cameras, teammates, spotlights.
Alice moves in beside me without a word. She loops her arm around my shoulders, rests her head lightly against mine.
"He's okay," she says.
"Yeah." My voice barely works. A tear slips down my cheek and I swipe it away before anyone can see. "He's okay."
"Come on, guys," Jasper calls, already halfway across the sideline, weaving through crew members and tangled cords like he owns the place. "I got us a spot up front."
Security tries to intercept him near the gate, arms out, clearly ready to shut him down. But Jasper doesn't even flinch. He just slows enough to flash the laminated pass hanging from his neck. A shiny gold rectangle that says ALL-ACCESS in bold lettering, courtesy of his connections and a few favors he never bothered explaining.
He tips his hat—yes, he's actually still wearing the darn thing—and says something low and smooth. Whatever it is, it works. The security guy steps aside like he's been charmed straight out of protocol.
Alice lets out a low whistle beside me. "God, my cowboy's sexy when he's in boss mode," she murmurs, eyes locked on Jasper's back as he throws a grin over his shoulder and waves us forward like we're royalty.
Emmett snorts. "He's got too much power with that damn pass."
"I'm not complaining," I say, falling in behind him as we trail Jasper through the controlled chaos of the sideline.
Behind us, photographers are still clicking away. The crowd is still chanting Edward's name.
But ahead?
Jasper's leading us straight to the heart of it all.
The lights around the stadium dim for a moment, then explode into gold.
A spotlight snaps to the stage at midfield. The Lombardi Trophy gleams under it like it's been blessed by the football gods themselves.
The crowd roars as the Seahawks storm the platform, some still in helmets, others stripped down to sweat-soaked undershirts and pads hanging loose. Fireworks thunder in the sky above, raining sparks behind the stage.
Edward walks up last. Still limping. Still wincing every few steps. His jersey's half untucked, shoulder wrapped in a quick bandage, but he's upright. He's glowing.
The confetti hasn't stopped. It sticks to his hair, his cheeks, his eyelashes. He runs a hand through it and shakes his head like he can't believe any of this is real.
He's surrounded by teammates slapping his back, hugging him, shouting over the noise. Coaches wave him forward.
The announcer's voice booms across the stadium.
"Ladies and gentlemen, your Super Bowl MVP—Edward Cullen!"
The place explodes.
It's so loud I swear the turf vibrates under my feet.
Edward steps forward and they hand him the trophy. He lifts it slowly, his face caught somewhere between holy smoke and what is my life.
Someone passes him a mic.
He blinks. Looks out over the crowd. At the cameras. At the insane, blinding lights. Then at us. His eyes find me immediately. He didn't even have to try. I'm magnetic. His gravity. And just like that, he settles. Shoulders drop. Jaw loosens.
He raises the mic. His voice is rough. A little hoarse. "Uh… wow. Okay."
People laugh. Cheer again.
"I'm really not the speech guy, so bear with me." He rubs the back of his neck. "I know my name's on the trophy, but I didn't get here alone. Not even close. Every single one of those guys in that locker room? They held me up. Literally and emotionally. And in Garrett's case—physically, on that fourth down scramble. Appreciate you, man."
The camera cuts to Garrett, who throws up a peace sign and grins.
Edward smiles too, small, crooked, and a little dazed.
"This team's been through it this season. So many ups and downs. Injuries. Late nights. Pressure. And still, they showed up. Every single time. I love them for it. I'd go to war with these guys, and honestly… I kinda did."
People cheer again. He lets it settle down.
"I've dreamed about this moment since I was a kid. But standing here now? It doesn't feel like a dream. It feels real. Messy. Painful. Beautiful. Like something I had to fight for every damn step." He pauses, swallows, then glances in my direction again, and everything shifts. His voice drops, just a little. Quieter. "And yeah, we won tonight. But the thing that's gonna stay with me? It's not the score. It's not the confetti. It's who I saw when I looked up from the ground."
My stomach does a full somersault.
"I didn't know if I could get up. For a second, I didn't think I would. But I saw someone."
He doesn't say my name. He doesn't need to.
I feel every camera swing toward me, the lights practically burning through my skin. But I don't look away.
Because he's still looking at me.
"And in that moment, I knew exactly why I had to stand up. Why I had to finish. Because sometimes you don't fight for the trophy. You fight for the thing waiting for you at the end of it."
My throat closes. My hand covers my mouth.
His voice steadies again. Stronger now. Clear.
"So yeah. This one's for Seattle. For this team. And for the ones who never stopped believing in me… even when I wasn't so sure myself."
He lifts the trophy higher this time, jaw clenched, eyes shining in the lights.
And that's it.
He steps back, chest rising hard, eyes still locked on me even as the stadium erupts again.
And I just stand there.
Totally wrecked.
Totally his.
The celebrations moved to some speakeasy in Old Town Scottsdale—hidden behind a velvet curtain and a door that screams don't even think about it unless you're on the list or dating a quarterback. Inside, it's all dark wood and dim golden lights, like the inside of a bourbon bottle. Fancy. Sexy. Expensive. I'd probably enjoy it more if my heart wasn't doing that weird thing where it tries to beat and sink at the same time.
I want to enjoy it. I really do. It's gorgeous in here, and technically, this is a party for Edward. A post-Super Bowl, holy-shit-he-did-it kind of thing. But he's not here. He's still with the med team getting poked and scanned and bandaged up like a mummy with excellent cheekbones. CTs, MRIs, probably a solid hour of him grumbling at doctors and saying I'm fine through gritted teeth. Classic Edward. Stubborn, injured, and allergic to being taken care of.
The league tried to spin it—and released a statement about how the Kansas City guy who leveled him got fined for misconduct or whatever. Unnecessary roughness. Bad sportsmanship. Basically: oops. But fines don't rewind time. They don't undo the second when the whole stadium held its breath, and I forgot how to breathe entirely.
Anyway. He's okay-ish. Sore, wrapped in gauze and tape and pride, but okay. And tonight is about the win. The miracle. The fourth-quarter magic no one thought was coming.
So I'm trying. I'm here. Charlie bailed after Edward's speech, muttering something about his blood pressure and giving Emmett a very dad handshake before disappearing into the night like a flannel-wrapped ghost. That's just him. One foot out the door before dessert.
Jasper got us a booth in VIP. And by booth, I mean leather-bound palace. Two servers circle like clockwork, keeping everyone's drinks full. I'm sipping ginger ale like it's champagne because, surprise, I'm growing humans. Alice is curled up beside Jasper, barefoot and glowing like a confetti-dusted fairy, and honestly, it's adorable. They're in their own little world. One where I'm invisible, apparently.
Emmett's holding court at the bar, retelling Edward's touchdown like it's folklore. Each version gets more dramatic. If I wait long enough, I think he'll start adding dragons.
And then there's me. Trying to look normal. Chill. Not like I'm constantly watching the door like I expect Edward to burst through it in slow motion with theme music playing.
Every few minutes, one of his teammates drops by to check on me. Hey, you okay? He's a beast, he'll bounce back. Do you need anything? Water? Wings? Oxygen? They're sweet, truly. Big-hearted and a little buzzed. I nod and smile and thank them all, but I'm starting to feel like the unofficial injured-reserve girlfriend mascot.
The good news? No one stays long. They say their piece, give a reassuring shoulder squeeze, and disappear back into the crowd like respectful frat boys who've learned boundaries. A miracle in and of itself.
I haven't moved from the booth. I just sit here, glass sweating in my hand, my legs stuck to the leather seat, pretending I'm not counting the minutes.
Waiting for him.
Always.
Do you know what couldn't wait?
My bladder.
Yeah. After slamming back five ginger ales like I was trying to drown my feelings in bubbles, nature finally came knocking. Loudly. What? It's been two hours—painfully dragging into three—and I've already rewatched Emmett's dramatic reenactment of the final play about six times. I needed something to do, and hydration was the hill I chose to die on.
I excuse myself from the booth, mumble something about needing air (and by air I mean a bathroom), and slip into the crowd. Velvet curtains. Loud music. Someone cackling like they've just discovered tequila for the first time. I make my way through the chaos and into a dim hallway where, of course, the bathroom line is wrapped around the wall like a sad, sparkly conga line of impatient women in stilettos.
Of course, it's a mile long. Because why wouldn't it be? God forbid I catch a break tonight.
With nothing better to do than pretend I'm not about to burst, I pull out my phone and check my messages.
Still nothing.
No text. No update. No little bubble telling me he's typing. My thumb hovers, just for a second, like I might message him first—but then I do what any emotionally stable adult would do: I open Instagram.
And yeah, there it is. My whole feed, drowning in clips from the game. The throw. The hit. The touchdown. Him standing up like he didn't just scare the entire stadium into dead silence. His name trending. His smile is everywhere. People are already calling it the comeback of the decade.
But it's us that wrecks me.
Someone caught it. The moment on the field. Me running to him like a lunatic. Him catching me like I'm the only real thing in the world. That kiss—rough and messy and completely unbothered by the fact that we were being filmed from about twelve angles.
I hit replay.
Then again.
And again.
The line creeps forward at the speed of erosion. And I just stand there, staring at a video that makes my heart race and my stomach hurt, because he's everywhere tonight… except here.
"Bella, right?"
I glance up, distracted—then freeze.
Standing in front of me, all high cheekbones and designer elegance is Gigi.
Gigi, as in the ex-fiancée.
The one in the Vogue spread with the couture gown and the oceanside shoot.
The one the internet still won't shut up about.
And she's even more beautiful in person.
Which feels unfair.
She looks like she just stepped off a runway—hair pinned back in some effortless twist, lips the perfect shade of mauve, glowing skin, and a dress that probably costs more than my entire tuition.
I feel the gut punch instantly.
The only thing that ever made me feel okay about her was convincing myself her photos were filtered, edited, and retouched to hell.
But here she is. Actually perfect.
She laughs—awkward, breathy. "I can tell by the look on your face that you know who I am."
"Gigi," I say, trying to keep my voice even. My skin is burning, heat crawling up my neck. "But… how do you know me?"
She smiles—soft, knowing. "Let's just say… I paid attention. You learn a lot from what someone doesn't say. Or who keeps showing up. I figured it out."
I swallow hard. "Oh."
I shouldn't feel guilty. But I do.
Gigi doesn't linger on it. She glances past me, her expression shifting. "I saw you come in with Jasper," she says. "And I've… kind of been watching you from my booth all night."
Well, that's—
"Which sounds weird, I know," she adds quickly, with a small laugh. "I just kept thinking, what would I even say to you? Why would you care?"
I blink.
She's nervous. Gigi is nervous.
"You looked calm. Relaxed," she adds, softer now. "Like none of this madness touches you. It was… kind of disarming."
She shifts like she's about to bail before it gets more awkward, but she doesn't. "You're kind of a hot topic on social media right now. Anytime Eddie gets a new girl, people lose their minds. Especially the mean ones."
Eddie.
I hate it.
Hate how it sounds in her voice. Like it still belongs to her.
Gigi cocks her head, her expression turning more real. "You're handling it better than I did," she says. "Back then, I was googling myself every ten minutes and crying in the bathtub over Reddit threads."
I pretend I'm not rattled. Not at all intimidated. So I ramble—like a freak.
"You know," I blurt, too fast, too open, "I had my one meltdown, but that was right after we found out I was pregnant and my hormones were a disaster. He told me these people online don't know us… so I stopped reading. And it's been better. It's actually been… good."
Gigi freezes, just for a second. Like the word pregnant hit her square in the chest. Like we and us echo louder than I meant them to.
But she doesn't break.
She lifts her shoulders in a half-shrug and smooths it all away with a practiced smile. "Yeah," she says softly, "he was always good at tuning out the noise."
And then she looks at me—really looks at me—and I can feel it.
The shift.
She glances toward the main room, hesitating. "I didn't come over to be weird. I just… thought if we ever run into each other again, this might make it less awkward."
"Thanks," I say. "That's… actually really nice of you."
Gigi starts to turn but then stops.
"For what it's worth," she says quietly, "he never looked at me the way he looked at you on that field tonight."
She disappears through the curtain, back to her world, and I'm just standing there like some idiot holding my phone in line for a bathroom I don't even care about anymore.
I'm still reeling.
The whole walk back to the booth, I scan the room for her, checking every reserved table, every polished silhouette in a designer dress.
Nothing.
Like she vanished.
Maybe she left.
Maybe she said what she needed to say and slipped out before she had to watch the rest.
Before she had to watch him find me.
When I finally make it back, I slide into the booth like nothing's changed, even though everything has. My heart's still unsteady. My stomach's still twisted. The ginger ale waiting for me on the table is fresh, untouched like I haven't been gone for almost half an hour. No one says anything. Not Alice curled into Jasper. Not Emmett, still animated across the room.
And then the room shifts.
It's subtle at first—a murmur, a pull in the air. A collective pause like the energy just bent around something too big to ignore.
I don't see him walk in.
But I feel it.
Voices rise. Heads turn. Phones shoot up like fireworks. The music keeps playing, but no one's listening. Something's happening.
The way voices rise all at once. The way heads turn. The way people suddenly start moving toward the entrance is like the air itself has tilted.
The music doesn't stop, but the crowd does.
Turning in my seat, I crane my neck, trying to see through the wall of bodies now buzzing like a shaken hive. Phones shoot into the air. Camera flashes spark against the low golden light, blooming like fireflies.
Pushing to my feet doesn't help. The crowd is too thick, voices too loud, and everyone shifting toward the same magnetic pull near the entrance. Even Jasper, normally unbothered by spectacle, is leaning forward, eyes narrowed.
There's nothing but shoulders and sequins in every direction.
No choice but to climb.
Fingers curl around the edge of the table as I carefully lift one foot onto the seat cushion. Glasses rattle behind me, and I mutter a quick sorry to no one in particular. My heels wobble slightly in the velvet, unstable and too high for this kind of thing. I reach back, bracing myself against the wall, and slowly straighten up.
The booth sinks under my weight, but it holds.
And now, finally, I can see—just a glimpse at first.
The top of his head, that unmistakable deep bronze hair, tousled and perfect in its unruly way.
My heart skips. Then speeds up.
He's here.
And he looks so good.
Dressed in head-to-toe Gucci—black tailored trousers, a fitted jacket that sharpens the lines of his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease the base of his throat. No tie. No flash. Just elegance with a little edge.
His face is still bruised, faint red marks blooming along his cheekbone and jaw, but he's glowing in the way only someone who won can.
And he's not smiling at the cameras.
Not at the reporters calling his name.
Not even at his teammates slapping his back and trying to pull him into group photos.
He's leaning down, saying something to someone near the bar, eyes still scanning the crowd. Whoever it is points.
Right at me.
Edward follows the gesture, lifts his gaze—
And our eyes meet.
His whole body changes.
His smile is slow, fierce, and filled with something that makes my knees go weak.
He doesn't wave. Doesn't call out.
He moves.
Shoulders cutting through the crowd like nothing can touch him. Like there's a direct line between us and everything else is just noise. People try to grab him—teammates, staff, well-wishers—but he shakes them off, barely slowing down.
And then—he's at the booth.
Before I can say a word, his hands are on my hips.
He lifts me off the velvet seat like I weigh nothing, and sets me gently onto the floor in front of him.
His hands slide to my face, cradling it as his eyes search mine for half a heartbeat, and then he kisses me.
Deeply.
Like the whole game, the whole world led to this.
His mouth is warm and demanding, and I gasp into him, clutching the fabric of his jacket to stay upright.
He doesn't let go.
His hands are still on my face, still holding me like I'm the most fragile thing he's ever been trusted with, but his kiss is anything but gentle. It's full of need, of relief, of every second we've spent apart.
When he finally pulls back, it's only a fraction.
His mouth hovers just over mine, his breath tangled with mine, noses brushing.
"Hi," he says. Soft. Private.
His lips are still brushing mine when I whisper it back.
"Hi."
His lips twitch into a smile, just barely. Something soft and unguarded that pulls the breath right out of me again.
"You wanna get out of here?" he murmurs, voice low, rough with something heavier than exhaustion.
I blink up at him, still catching my breath. "Don't you want to celebrate the win?"
He leans in again, nose brushing mine, his smile turning slow and just a little wicked.
"Yes," he says, "but just with you."
It's just like that first night.
The second Edward slides into the Uber beside me, everything tilts. The car lurches into motion, but it's not the speed that makes my stomach drop—it's him. The heat of his thigh against mine, the weight of his hand as it settles on my knee like it belongs there.
He doesn't say anything. Just turns to look at me.
And I forget how to breathe.
The whole ride shifts around that look. That unblinking, devastating way he sees me like he already knows what I'm feeling. Like he's feeling it too. My pulse jumps. My body remembers. That pull between us sparks to life like it never left.
Outside, the city moves in streaks of light. Streetlamps glide across his face, catching the sharp angle of his cheekbone, and the quiet tension in his jaw. He looks calm. But his fingers are drawing soft, slow circles just above my knee, and every pass leaves fire in its wake.
I clench my thighs. Try to breathe through the ache blooming low in my belly.
"This feel familiar?" he murmurs, his voice a low scrape against my skin as his mouth brushes the edge of my ear.
I nod, barely. "Too much," I whisper, and it comes out shaky. Raw.
Because it is.
It's the same charge that used to light me up from the inside. That same restless heat curling in my gut, making it impossible to think about anything but the next time he'll touch me.
But now we know better. Now there's a history behind every glance, every shift of his hand. We've already burned, already tasted what happens when we give in.
And we still want it. More than ever.
By the time we pull up to the hotel, I'm flushed and barely holding it together. My chest is tight, my knees weak.
He thanks the driver, barely sounding like himself, and the moment the car door shuts behind us, he grabs my hand and walks fast—like he's afraid if he slows down, he'll lose the thread.
We slip into the elevator, and he doesn't touch me. Not really. But he's so close I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, feel the tight coil of restraint in the way he stands so still beside me.
His jaw is locked, throat working as he swallows hard. His chest rises in shallow, uneven breaths like he's holding himself together by a thread.
I can't stop looking at him.
The air between us is thick with it—need, want, everything we haven't said. Every second stretches thin, like the silence itself is vibrating.
When the doors slide open on his floor, he moves fast, and almost stumbles. He fumbles with the key card, shoulders tense, fingers twitching, and something in me breaks a little. I step in close behind him, so close my chest brushes his back, and I tilt my face up just enough to let my lips skim the nape of his neck, right where his hair curls at the base.
"Need help?" I murmur, barely more than a breath.
He groans, low and rough. "Don't do that."
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
We barely make it inside before everything combusts.
He turns fast, eyes dark and wild, and grabs my waist like he can't hold himself back a second longer. His mouth crashes into mine, and I gasp, but there's no time to breathe. He's kissing me hard like he's trying to drink the air straight from my lungs.
His lips move over mine with rough urgency, and then his tongue slips in—slow at first, just a tease, a taste—and I moan against him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. He deepens the kiss instantly, tongue sweeping into my mouth like he needs to memorize it.
I kiss him back, teeth catching his bottom lip before I let it go. He groans, hands tightening on my waist.
It's not delicate—it's all tongue and teeth and breathless sounds. Messy. Greedy. Like we've waited years for this.
I melt against his chest, dizzy from how much I want him. From how much he wants me.
He backs me toward the bed, kissing me like none of it happened—the game, the chaos, the noise. This is the only thing that matters.
"Let me," I whisper, fingers already moving to the buttons of his shirt.
He nods, breath ragged.
I ease the jacket off his shoulders, and he winces.
"Sorry," I murmur.
"Don't care," he says, voice hoarse. "Keep going."
My hands are unsteady as I work the buttons open. One. Then another.
I run my fingers down his chest, and he shivers.
"You're shaking," I say quietly.
"So are you."
His shirt slips to the floor, and I pause.
His body is marked. Deep bruises along his ribs, angry red streaks across his shoulders, and a shallow cut near his collarbone. There's gauze on his shoulder, and sweat still clings to him. His skin is warm under my hands, flushed, raw.
But he's still him. Still standing. Still beautiful in the way someone is when they've fought through hell to get here.
I lean in and press my lips just above a bruise on his side. He sucks in a sharp breath.
His hand slips behind my neck. "Don't stop."
So I don't.
"I hate seeing you like this," I breathe against his skin.
He lifts my chin, eyes on mine, steady for the first time all night.
"I don't feel it," he says. "Not when it's you."
With a gentle push, I guide him back until he's sitting at the edge of the bed. He doesn't resist. His legs fall open, hands braced behind him, eyes fixed on me like he's seeing something he doesn't quite believe.
My hands trail down his chest, slow and sure, feeling the way his muscles shift beneath my touch. When I reach his belt, I work it open without a word. The sound of the buckle unclasping feels loud in the quiet room, sharp and intimate.
He still doesn't move, just watches me, breath growing heavier, jaw tight with restraint.
Lowering myself between his knees, my hands slide to his hips, grounding us both. The tension in him is palpable, every muscle tight like he's just barely holding still.
The second I lean in, his fingers slip into my hair, possessive without pressure, like he just needs to hold on to something.
I reach for the button of his pants, undoing it with steady hands. The zipper follows. He lifts his hips to help me as I tug the fabric down, quiet and eager, his eyes never leaving mine. His pants fall to the floor. A beat. Then I hook my fingers into the waistband of his boxers and ease them down too.
His breath leaves him in a shaky exhale.
He looks wrecked already.
When I take him into my mouth, the sound he makes nearly breaks me. A low, raw groan, guttural and real. His whole body tenses, his hips twitch beneath my hands, and the taste of him—warm, salty, familiar—floods my senses.
I move slowly, deliberately, letting him feel everything.
"Bella," he chokes out, voice cracking. "God—"
I want him to have this.
Not just the release, but the softness inside all that pain. Something gentle, something just for him.
His body jerks the moment my tongue glides along the underside of him. The pulse of him against my mouth is steady at first, then falters—grows uneven. Every flick of my tongue, every careful pull of my lips makes him twitch, makes his grip tighten.
He pulses harder when I hollow my cheeks and hum.
He's unraveling for me.
The way his head tips back, chest rising in stuttered breaths, brows drawn tight in pleasure he can't contain. His mouth slack, whispering my name like a prayer.
And I love it.
I love him.
When I finally let him go, he groans, breathless and undone. His grip loosens in my hair, and I rise slowly to my feet. His eyes follow me, still dazed, pupils dark and wide.
I reach for the straps of my dress, easing them down one at a time. The fabric slides over my skin, soft and slow, pooling at my feet like something reverent.
When I stand before him, bare and vulnerable, his entire expression changes.
He sits up like he's been jolted awake like he's seeing me for the first time.
And then his gaze drops.
To me.
To the soft curve of my belly, where not long ago there was only skin and flatness.
Now, there's shape. Life.Them.
He reaches out with one hand, almost hesitant, like he's afraid to break something sacred.
Fingertips graze the swell of my stomach. He presses his palm flat, slow and steady, and I watch the shift happen in his face.
His breath hitches. His lips part. His lashes flutter like he's trying to blink back the weight of what he's feeling.
And then his eyes meet mine.
Green and full of so much it makes my knees weak.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers. Voice thick. Honest.
I don't speak. I just lean forward, gently pushing him back onto the bed.
His body obeys, falling back against the pillows with that same dazed look still etched on his face.
I climb over him, straddling his hips, and his hands fly to my thighs like he can't help it. His grip is gentle but full of purpose like he's trying to memorize every inch of my skin. Every second of this.
Hovering just above him, I wrap my hand around him again. He's still hard, so ready it makes my chest ache. My breath catches as I guide him to me, and then I sink into him.
All the way.
Edward gasps, his head falling back against the pillow.
"Bella…fuck," he groans, the word dragged out of him like he can't keep it in.
His hands slide up to my hips, fingers spreading wide, grounding himself in my body, not pulling or forcing, just holding like it's the only thing tethering him to earth.
I move slowly at first. My hips roll in gentle circles, testing the rhythm, adjusting to the weight and fullness of him inside me.
He fits so deeply that it steals my breath. Every inch of him presses into the parts of me that have only ever belonged to him. The stretch is intense. The heat was unbearable. The pressure is perfect.
He groans again, low and rough, and I feel his fingers flex at my sides. He's giving me the reins. Letting me have him.
I go to brace my hands on his chest for balance, but his torso is a battlefield. Bruises dark and angry spread across his ribs, some yellowing at the edges. Scratches slice across the skin like reminders of everything he gave out there tonight. The gauze on his shoulder is stained, peeking out from beneath him.
There's no safe place to touch.
But I still need to be close.
Shifting my weight, I lean forward and press my lips to an untouched patch of skin just beneath his collarbone. Soft. Careful. He exhales like it brings him back to earth.
Then I start to move again, slow and intentional.
The grind of my hips deepens the angle and draws a gasp from my throat and a low, guttural curse from his.
"Right there," he groans, voice raw. His grip tightens just enough to let me know he feels it too.
I nod, our foreheads brushing. My hands slide down to the mattress, bracing on either side of his shoulders.
I find my rhythm.
A steady roll that draws him deeper, pulls me under and makes my breath falter with every pass.
His eyes stay on mine, glazed and burning green, locked so tightly to my face it feels like he's trying to memorize me.
"Bella," he whispers.
Each motion becomes smoother and easier. Wet heat coils between us, every slick slide more effortless than the last. The air in the room is thick with breath and skin and the sound of us moving together.
I pick up my pace. My hips rock harder, more confident now, and his head tilts back again as he moans, deep and open, completely unguarded.
His hands roam like he can't choose what part of me he wants to feel most. One slides to the small of my back, warm and firm. The other moves down, gripping the curve of my butt, guiding my rhythm with a slow, encouraging squeeze.
"Just like that," he groans, voice shaking. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
I couldn't if I tried.
He lifts his head, mouth finding the swell of my chest, trailing lower until his lips close around one of my nipples. He sucks gently at first, then with more purpose, and the sensation pulls a cry from deep inside me.
"Edward," I gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. I hold him to me, needing the heat of his mouth, the way he worships me with lips and tongue and teeth.
He groans against my skin, and the vibration sends a sharp wave of pleasure through me. His grip on my hip tightens, pushing me harder against him, and urging me to move faster.
It's not wild. It's not frantic.
It's deliberate.
Intimate.
Every movement says what words can't.
We're sweat-slick and trembling, our bodies chasing something that only exists between us.
I feel the shift in him. The way his breath grows harsher, more ragged. His moans turn into low, desperate grunts, like he's barely holding on.
Then his hands slide up my back.
Not just to touch.
To take control.
"Edward," I say, barely able to get the word out before he moves.
In one swift, breathless motion, he grabs me tight and rolls our bodies, flipping us until my back hits the mattress and he's above me. He never slips free, still buried inside me, holding on like he can't stand the thought of letting go.
A wince flashes across his face as his shoulder shifts, but he doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down.
He rises above me, bracing on his forearms, arms shaking slightly as he keeps his weight off the bruises. His body is beat up, but his focus is razor sharp—locked completely on me.
Then he draws back. Just enough to make me ache, my body already desperate for him again. The head of him drags through the wet heat between us, brushing right over that perfect, swollen bundle of nerves in one slow, slick stroke.
My hips jerk off the bed. I cry out without meaning to, raw and shameless.
He smirks and pushes back in. Slow. Deep. Devastating.
My hands fly to his arms, fingers digging into the tense, solid muscle of his biceps. He's burning beneath my palms, sweat-slick and shaking from how hard he's holding himself together.
His mouth crashes into mine again, tongue and teeth and breathless groans. He moves inside me with slow, relentless rhythm, each thrust purposeful, angled like he's studied the map of my body and memorized every single place that makes me fall apart.
He finds it—that spot buried deep that makes my toes curl, makes my breath catch. And he doesn't just hit it. He ruins me with it. Over and over.
My gasp spills into his mouth. My legs wrap around his waist, holding him closer, pulling him deeper.
And something shifts.
The angle.
The pressure.
He sinks further, the stretch hitting someplace so deep I cry out again, louder this time, and his moan answers mine, low and broken and wrecked.
His forehead presses to mine. His eyes squeeze shut like the feeling of me around him is too much.
"Don't stop," I whisper, breath hitching, hands clutching at his back.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says, and his voice cracks as badly as I do.
Then he changes pace.
Harder.
Faster.
Deeper.
Each thrust slams into me, hips snapping against mine with wet, brutal force. The sound of it fills the room, loud and relentless, and I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except take it.
Every time he drives into me, it punches the air from my lungs. Every stroke hits that same spot that's got my vision going white around the edges.
I'm so close.
He knows.
His jaw tightens. His eyes never leave mine. I can see it—the fight in him, the way his control is slipping, how hard he's trying to hold on while my body clenches tight around him.
His hands move to my hips, gripping hard, holding me right where he needs me as my walls start to tighten, squeezing him, locking him inside.
"Bella," he groans, voice broken open. It's a warning, a prayer, a surrender.
He hits that spot again. Then again. And I come apart.
It slams into me, fast and hot and full-body. I cry out his name, nails digging into his back, thighs trembling around him as my orgasm tears through me, relentless and blinding.
He feels it.
Feels my body take him in and hold him there.
That's what breaks him.
His rhythm stutters, breath catching, and then he's cursing into my skin, hips jerking in sharp, uncontrollable bursts.
"Fuck. Fuck, Bella—Jesus—"
His release slams into him, and I feel every part of it.
The heat floods deep inside me, warm and pulsing, each wave of it matching the tight, rhythmic twitch of him buried to the hilt.
He groans, a deep, guttural sound torn from somewhere he can't hide, forehead pressed hard to mine like he's trying to hold on to something real.
His body shakes above me, breath catching, muscles locked tight as he gives in completely.
And I take it.
His hands grip my hips like he needs to stay tethered, like he's not just coming—he's giving me something. All of him. Everything.
We stay like that.
Breathless.
Sweat-soaked.
Connected in a way that goes deeper than just skin and want.
We don't speak.
We just hold each other.
He stays inside me, still throbbing, still warm, still mine.
And together, we fall—
Shaking.
Clinging.
Coming home.
Thanks for reading. Oh. And to the KC fans, they can't win in RL and in fanfic too ;) It's called keeping a balance.