A/N: So two weeks ago, I went on vacation, and before I did I posted this long-ish chapter with a lovely note telling you that I'd see you in two weeks. My vacation was fabulous, and I looked forward to coming home and reading some reviews before finishing up the next chapter. Except either I or is technically challenged because this chapter never posted, and I'm so sorry if I made some of you think I disappeared. That's not going to happen.

So here is the chapter that you should have had a long time ago. Again, my apologies to those of you were like "That's why I don't read WIP's!"

I'll see you this weekend!

"One might almost say that an apparition is human vision corrected by divine love. I do not see you as you really are, Joseph; I see you through my affection for you. The Miracles of the Church seem to me not to rest so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always."

Willa Cather, Death Comes for the Archbishop

When there's a knock on her classroom door, she thinks that it's Mike and braces herself. Both feet solid on the floor. Arms crossed tight against her chest.

"Come in."

"Good morning, Bella!"

Esme Platt has far too much energy for 7:30 in the morning, but she is a welcome sight.

"Good morning, Esme. How are you?"

"Counting the days until spring break, just like everyone else, Miss Swan."

Bella chuckles in understanding, because if the person who coined the term "the dog days of summer" had been a teacher, it surely would have been "the dog days of late winter" instead.

Esme surprises her by sitting down in one of the student desks, crossing her legs and looking expectantly at Bella until the younger woman sits next to her.

"How has everything been going in here?"

Her voice is tinged with concern and it makes Bella wary.

"It's been going really well." And she's glad she doesn't have to lie this time.

"You've started The Great Gatsby, I see?"

"Yes."

"And so we beat on, boats against the current," Esme sighs, losing herself for a moment before stopping and smiling and looking back at Bella. "They'll love it. They always do."

"I think so, too."

"And you're sure everything's okay?"

"Yes. Is there a reason you're asking?"

Esme looks down at her desk, and it's enough to put Bella on edge. On guard. The older woman exhales.

"Mr. Newton asked me to observe some of your classes."

"I don't under—"

But Bella is silenced by Esme raising her hand and shaking her head.

"I know. The man is a troll. Has been since he was a freshman."

Bella can't help but laugh, and Esme smiles as she leans closer.

"I know you're doing a great job, Bella. And I intend to tell him just that."

"How do you know?"

Esme looks around at the classroom, and Bella's eyes follow, taking in the brightly colored posters and typed essays that hang on the walls, marked with praise in her swooping cursive letters. She looks at the dry erase doodles that cover the borders of her white board, "gifts" drawn by students that she always leaves up until the space is claimed by someone else. She looks at the piles of papers on her desk and the art supplies that sprawl across the table in the corner of the room. And she wonders what Esme sees.

Then the older woman speaks.

"It feels good in here, Bella. There's life in here."

And Bella smiles, warm from Esme's compliment and the knowledge that it's true.

Esme places her hand on the younger woman's shoulder.

"I see life in you, too, Bella."

The blush deepens. The smile widens.

"Thank you, Esme."

"Have you thought about getting your credential? Washington State and U-Dub both have two-year programs. You can do most of the classes online, and work here full-time while you finish."

And she had thought about it. She might have even done some research on both of those programs and the requirements and expectations involved.

"I still have that one class to take to finish my degree."

"So take it. You're not going to let three units get in the rest of your life, are you?"

It does sound ridiculous when Esme says it, and Bella nods.

"I'll think about it."

The older woman pats Bella's shoulder and moves to stand.

"You should. I'd be happy to write you a letter of recommendation. I'll talk to Mr. Lynch about writing you one, too."

Bella rises after her, and follows Esme to the door.

"Principal Lynch? I think I've met him once, and he was leaving to go to a meeting."

Esme turns back and smiles.

"Get used to it, sweetheart."

Bella expects her to leave, to race to the work room to make a million copies, or read an entire novel before the first bell rings. So she retreats to her white board and begins to write the day's agenda. When she turns to check the clock, Esme is still leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed and her eyes soft and knowing.

"Do you need something else, Esme?"

"No," she smiles. "It's just this place."

"What about it?"

"It suits you."

…

It's nearly 10:30 when he rings her doorbell, and she smiles as she turns off the stove and walks toward the door.

Come over when you're done with work.

I can't stay the night.

I don't care. I'll cook something.

Yeah?

What do you want?

Just you.

She opens the door wide and grins.

By now, she should be used to seeing him standing in front of her. His hands always in his pockets. His head always ducked a little low so when he looks up at her, it's through his eyelashes. She should be used to the way his smile always starts when she appears, and gets bigger after they kiss. How the first kiss is always quick and hungry, but the second is slow as he pulls her close and walks her backwards.

She should be used to all of it. But it always feels new.

"It smells amazing in here."

"I made tacos. Is that okay?"

"Are you kidding? I'm so sick of Italian."

"What's in the bag?"

"Tiramisu," he says and his smile is contrite. "I don't think I could ever get sick of that."

She nods and walks to the stove, lifting the lid of the pan, and stirring its contents a few more times.

And then he's behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, his forehead resting on her shoulder, his words warm on her back.

"I missed you today."

"I miss you every day."

He lifts his head and she feels his smile in her hair.

"How do you always smell so good?"

"I probably smell like ground beef."

"Hm. That's not it."

He inhales so hard, it tickles and makes her laugh and she stumbles toward the table with him behind her.

"Sit down, and I'll get your food."

"Yes ma'am," he says, pinching her ass when she walks away.

They eat and talk, and he always maneuvers his plate so that his hand never leaves hers.

"How was your day?"

She remembers playing house in pre-school. Jessica Stanley always assigned parts and they would act out scenes of domesticated family life: Jessica cooking on the small wooden stove and Bella coming home to eat after a long day's work. Sometimes, it ended in a plastic food fight. Sometimes, it ended in tears because other girls wanted to be the mommy and Jessica refused to relinquish the title.

But it was always make-believe.

Except now he's eating food she made in her kitchen and sitting next to her at the table, and he brought dessert home from work, and he's asking how her day is.

And it's real.

So she smiles, and holds his hand a little tighter.

"It was good. Really good, actually. I told you about Esme, right?"

"Head of your department?"

"Yeah. She wants me to get my teaching credential."

He interlocks their fingers.

"You haven't thought about it before?"

"Not until recently."

He kisses her. Soft.

"You should do it."

"We'll see. I can take online classes so I can still work, but it'll be hard."

"Sure. But it'll be worth it, right?"

"I think so. It would be nice to have benefits."

"No shit."

She laughs. "And if I'm a real teacher, Mike Newton can't fire me for not going out with him."

His fork clatters against his plate and his eyes grow hard and wary as they train on hers.

"Who the fuck is Mike Newton?"

She shakes her head.

"He's no one. Just some asshole I went to high school with. The douchey guy who kept staring at you during the dance."

She watches his eyebrows knit together, watches him remember.

"So why can he fire you?"

"He's the Assistant Principal."

Edward picks up his fork, but he's holding it like a weapon.

"Is he fucking with you?"

She puts her other hand over the one still locked between her fingers.

"I can handle it," she says, and her voice is strong.

He sets his fork down, quietly this time, before raising their hands to his mouth and kissing her knuckles.

"You have to tell me if he crosses the line."

"I will."

"Promise me."

"I promise," she says, letting go of his hand so she can put both of hers in his hair, and he whispers against her lips.

"Let me take care of you."

She just nods and kisses him and climbs into his lap, and then he's picking her up and she's wrapping her legs around his waist and lifting her shirt and bra over head while he walks them to the couch.

It's hurried this time, fast and frenetic, and somehow her jeans come off while his are just open enough and then she's slick and sliding on top of him. She likes the way the cotton of his shirt rubs against her chest, the way his jeans feel against her thighs, the way his hands don't stop moving against her skin, and the way he looks at her in wonder and revelation.

And when they come together, she knows how he feels.

Because finding this person, feeling this way.

It must be some kind of miracle.