A/N: this is the last chapter—a short epilogue of sorts. Thanks, cheers and tears at the end :)

Stephanie Meyer owns.

o o o

The night of Edward's CD launch party, I wear a short, tight dress with high-heeled boots and sheer pantyhose. Buying this outfit was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time and I can't wait to see his reaction.

We meet at the venue, straight after work, and I have a long coat that covers my legs and hides my secret. When I take it off, Edward goes two shades paler and pulls me close, a feral look in his eyes. He whispers in my ear before kissing my neck: "Always wear short skirts like that, okay? God, I love your legs."

I laugh and take his hand, and he holds it all night, keeping it close to my body, occasionally brushing his fingers against my thighs. He never lets me go, parading me and using me as a shield all at once. He's excited and nervous, proud and shy at the same time; his emotions come off him in waves and I love that, from my privileged vantage point at his side, I see all those facets of him.

We drink champagne and smile at everyone, laugh with everyone, all the big names and the important people and the better-known musicians that show up— even with the few journalists that hang around, gorging on canapés. The sparkly wine makes us giggle and the elation of the evening makes us happy and we kiss and smile so much my jaw hurts and I can't stop kissing and smiling some more.

He lets go of me to play a few pieces and as usual the sight of Edward at the piano sends me shivering and combusting all at once. I can't quite believe my luck, his luck. I know that everyone in the room wants a piece of him, but he is mine—entirely, irrevocably mine.

When the evening comes to a close, we are both drunk and my feet hurt. Edward carries me on his back all the way home, and I hold his shoulders and pull his hair and bury my face into the soft collar of his jacket. I breathe in deeply, getting dizzy with his scent and the warmth of his body. He runs with me on his back, unsteady and playful- like a kid, a teenager- pretending to drop me just so he can spin me around and kiss me against a wall or a car and run his hands under my skirt. I slap them away but I'm clumsy and slow and I don't really want them gone.

When we finally get home, he lowers me onto the bed and climbs in with me, pushing my skirt up with feverish, uncoordinated movements.

"I've wanted to do this all night," he says in a strangled voice as he fumbles with my panties.

"You just want a girl with a short skirt and a long jacket." I tease him, elongating all the vowels in a mock singing drawl, and he bites my neck teasingly.

"God, you've got such shit taste in music."

I laugh as he throws my panties onto the floor. Without bothering to take my dress off, without teasing or playing, he buries himself deep inside me, and we make love in clumsy, sloppy drunk motions; I just can't stop laughing, and he comes too soon and I'm laughing and moaning all at the same time and he just chants my name like a symphony into my hair- "Bella Bella Bella Bella…"—and then he puts his fingers where he knows I'll come undone and I'm not laughing anymore, but screaming now and everything is perfect.

And afterwards, before we fall asleep, I tell him I am so proud of him, and he just pulls me tight and smooths my hair and kisses my forehead and tells me he loves me, so much, so much.

And everything is perfect.

o o o

The phone rings out at five a.m. and Edward runs to it like it's a fire alarm. We dress quickly and ten minutes later we're tearing down still-sleepy streets and parking outside the hospital and running to the elevator. We walk down long, unfamiliar corridors and Edward pauses when we reach the right door, hesitant, unsure. I hug him quickly, and he nods and knocks softly before going in.

Leah is sleeping, and even in her rest she looks exhausted. Her skin is pale and her beautiful black hair is messy and knotted on her pillow, but there's a serenity in her features that fills me with awe.

Emmett is walking the room in small, rhythmic steps, a gentle dance to a tune that's only in his head, and he's holding a tiny bundled infant. It looks so small in his huge arms and he looks so beat and so ecstatic; I wish I had a camera with me to capture this precious moment. He lifts his head when he sees us and smiles a big, joyous smile that illuminates his whole face, but his eyes immediately dart back to the baby in his arms, as if he's scared it'll somehow disappear.

Edward takes a step toward him and lays a hand on his shoulder, patting him awkwardly for fear of endangering his precious bundle. Emmett gives him an encouraging nod, and he reaches out to stroke the baby's face, his eyes filling with tenderness and emotion.

They exchange whispered words in their language, and then Edward asks a question, and Emmett pauses a moment before answering.

"Rosalie," he says in a voice charged with emotion.

Edward's face crumples and tears spring freely from his eyes as he gently, lovingly strokes his niece's tiny hand with his long fingers. Both brothers are crying now, and I take a step back and busy myself with arranging flowers in a vase, giving them this private time to remember their mother, lost long ago and never forgotten, now reborn through her American namesake.

o o o

Edward and I loved each other when we didn't even know each other's names. Our bodies, our souls, our dreams took the lead; reality is playing catch-up and it's a long, sometimes difficult road to travel.

Here are some things I've learned along the way: he's tidy to the point of obsession and hates that I leave my books and papers all over the place when I'm working. He can't cook and doesn't even try. He loves long, lazy baths and will quite happily spend an hour in the tub, reading and dreaming and god knows what. It drives me insane.

He's at his most focused and productive between midnight and three a.m., and no amount of complaining, from me or from the neighbors, will ever sway him if he's decided he's got to try out something new. Most nights he comes to bed several hours after I do, and he presses his cold body against mine, waking me up, wanting to play. And it annoys me sometimes but he knows that I'll always relent and I'll always want him, and he'll always make it good for me. So good.

And some other things: he can be aloof, abrupt, and often plain rude. He craves tenderness and soft touches and sweet words. He doesn't always deserve them, but he gets them anyway because he's liberal and sincere in his apologies and truly ashamed afterward.

He's proud, so proud of my achievements, in a way that not even my parents are. He corrects people who address me as "Miss Swan" with so much annoyance it makes me laugh. I tease him he has a "doctor fantasy" and he doesn't deny it. He loves to show me off and never tires of telling me how beautiful I am, how perfect, and how lucky he is to have me.

Sometimes he disappears in some dark, angry, lonely place inside his head, and he loses words and smiles and sleep. He loses music and hope and he's scared and too proud to ask for help. I never could have guessed how often I'd have to honor my promise and find him back, bring him back from wherever he is. How often I'd have to coax him and let him bury his face in my hair and hold him tight. I reassure him that he's okay, we're okay, the future's bright and clear and we'll get through it, through anything.

That side of him is mine alone. To others we must appear mismatched, ill fated—his beauty and charisma disproportionate, inappropriate to my quiet, unassuming life.

I know better. I know there is a strength and a courage in me that are my own and my own only; I know he needs it as much as I need his glamour and passion to ignite me and bring me to life.

He healed me: he made me a whole, stronger person, aware and proud of my worth and my uniqueness.

I heal him, every day, just by letting him be himself—scared, angry, insecure. Traumatized. Normal.

Because I fought for him, for us, I know I'm a fighter; because he surrendered to me, to us, he knows he's not alone and doesn't have to depend only on himself to get through life.

He makes me sparkle and I keep the flames from devouring him. Together we burn strong, bright, eternal.

One day we'll look back to our lives, we'll reflect on how we found and lost and found again. One day he'll sing sweet lullabies to babies who will have coppery hair and long eyelashes and pale skin. But today… today I just hold him, let him sink into me, devour the feeling of being young, free, in love. Today I'm greedy; I take all that he gives me, and demand more.

I gave it all up to him: my heart, my soul, my life.

He took it all, and gives it all back, magnified a million times.

The keeper of my heart, my soul-mate, my life.

o o o

A/N: So…. This is it. Did you want more? I did warn you this was going to be a multi-shot rather than a proper multi-chapter, didn't I :)? Still… I'd love to hear your theories as to what Bella and Edward's future holds.

From my side, all I can say is that writing this short story has taught me so much and I am incredibly grateful to every single person who's read it, reviewed it, put it on alert, favorited it, tweeted about it… you are amazing and you made me so incredibly happy.

Special thanks to the magical LJ Summers who did a great job of making me look good, even though I'm sure she despairs at how little I listen to her; to EvilGiraffe82 and HoochieMomma, my number one readers; to all my TSA sisters who keep me sane and make me feel loved; to Chele and Emmy who recced this on the PPSS Blog and almost gave me a heart attack.

Over and out.