A/N: I don't own Twilight.

After hours of endless walking, 280 Spartan Avenue turned out to be just across the street from where she was standing.

She took in the beautiful houses, and the beautiful trees, and then for the tenth time in the day, she looked into the paper resting in her hands hoping it had been magically re-written. Yet, there it lay, clear as daylight: 280 Spartan Avenue.

The house was a phenomenal dump.

Maybe what they said about authors being poor was true, she thought, and so she led it slide and rang the bell. When there was no answer, she knocked on the door till her hand was pounding in pain.

It was nearing midnight and across the street, some had gathered around to stare. She could clearly see why, for the house which surely was once a fine-looking mansion was now nothing but creepy.

She was about to turn around and leave, when a man in his late thirties came to the door looking more than pissed.

Edward Cullen was resting his body against the doorframe while holding the door open with his right hand. She noticed the short spiky growth of beard on his face and his bloodshot eyes and she wondered whether he had a bit of a beer stomach beneath his button down, but quickly looked away.

"Isabella." He stated.

"How do you know my name?" She squeaked, completely caught off guard.

"Intuition" he muttered. "What do you want?"

"May I come in?" She said, while she bit her lip.

He didn't say a word, but turned around and walked into the house leaving the door open.

The house smelled of humidity and old junk but she kept quiet as she followed him trough the long, dark hall. She went into his living room and quietly watched as he took a seat in the middle of the big couch. In front of him, on the table, a lighted cigarette was resting on a glass, surrounded by loose handwritten pages, most of them ripped.

She shifted her feet not knowing exactly what to do.

"I thought you could read some of the stuff I have written and give me your opinion," she sputtered.

"That's it?" he said in a bored, businesslike tone.

"I could help you," she said weakly, desperate.

"Help me with what?"

"I could be… your assistant or something"

"What makes you think I need an assistant?"

"I could just… type what you have written or… check your spelling mistakes…"

"What spelling mistakes?" he asked sharply, finally looking into her eyes.

"You know…" she fidgeted, "spelling mistakes. They are pretty common. Everybody makes them. Besides, we could talk about what we wrote and-"

"Is this some sad attempt to catch my attention?"

"Is not!" she shrieked. "I-I just want to learn how to write. Really write."

"Shouldn't you be at school or something?"

"Not right now," she mumbled.

When he didn't say a word, Isabella knew he was probably going to send her off home like everyone else. He wasn't going to take her seriously. Not until she was old enough. Like there was a specific age in which one is old enough to start writing…

"Ok." He said after a long pause. "I'll read twenty pages. Give me more than that and I won't read it."

"Yes!" she squealed. "Thank you! You won't regret this"

"Uhu. Not so sure… you can go now" he said, looking back towards the pages while she walked away.

She was almost out the door, when she heard his voice for the last time.

"Isabella? Why me? Don't tell me it's because you like any of my novels. I know it's not true."

From the couch, he waited for the sweetest most innocent voice he had heard for a long time, to come again.

"Because you are the only writer I know," she said.