You and Me, finally.

Edward.

Three years later.

Coming home to you is like a weight lifted, like the deepest sigh of relief. Even though our apartment is cramped, and our furniture cheap or second-hand, here, with you, is home.

But today, when I open the door, and see her sitting at our kitchen table, a different kind of sigh builds in my chest. It's less relief and more, well, disappointment.

You're not exactly relaxed, either. I can see it in the way your fingers knot together in your lap. It's there in the way your teeth scrape over your bottom lip as you look between me and her while I toe off my shoes. It's there in the few seconds it takes for the smile on your lips to reach your eyes.

I resent that, and rightly or wrongly, I blame Alice for it.

I don't like her.

No, it's not that. Not really.

I guess I don't trust her. I don't trust her not to hurt you, the person I love more than anyone else in the world. I mean, I'm sure I'd like her just fine if I wasn't constantly worried you were going to come home nursing a bruised self-esteem every time you hang out with her.

We've talked about it, on occasion, but most of the time you're quick to change the subject, and I'm quick to let you because I don't really want her to come between us.

But … the way she speaks to you bothers me. A lot.

"Oh, you guys are going out? Oh, that's okay. I'm sure I'll find something to do."

"No, no. I'm fine. Seriously, don't even think about me. Just go have fun."

"If Edward will let you, can you come over? I need you."

"I just … I thought you, of all people, would understand what it feels like to be abandoned by a parent."

When she's feeling like shit, it's like she needs to bring you down with her. I worry that she's using you as an emotional punching bag. I mean, I understand, —she's just doing what her mother did to her her whole life. And maybe she doesn't know any better, but it sucks, and I hate it.

But I don't know what to do if you can't, or don't want to, see it.

So I tolerate her presence for your sake. I go out of my way to ask about her, to include her in things, because I don't want you to feel caught between us. I won't make you choose between us. I wonder if she can say the same thing?

"Hi, Alice."

"Hi." She spares me only a glance and a tight-lipped smile before looking back at her textbook and highlighting a line of text in yellow.

"Hey, baby." Your smile melts away my irritation.

Placing my hands on the table, careful not to disturb your laptop or the papers and books spread out in front of you, I lean down to kiss your cheek. Over your shoulder, I see Alice roll her eyes—What the hell?

I push it from my mind and focus on the feel of your soft skin beneath my lips, the scent of your moisturise. I trail kisses down your cheek until I match my lips to yours. You're eager, deepening the kiss immediately, your unspoken "I missed you today." I kiss you hard, telling you, "me, too." The little noise that slips from your mouth into mine reverberates in my chest and shoots toward my groin. I pull away, my heart thundering in my chest like is a runaway train.

"Hey."

You smile. "How was your day?"

"Okay." I rub my neck, pushing my thumb into an aching muscle. My organic chemistry lab ran late and my lab partner very nearly screwed up our experiment, but I think I managed to undo the damage he did. I'll tell you about it later.

You trace beneath my eyes. "You look tired, baby."

I catch your wrist and kiss your fingertips. "A little. I'm fine."

"We're almost done here," you say quietly. "We just need to write up a conclusion."

I hear Alice's huff, and I guess you do, too, but we both ignore it. It's harder to ignore the tap of her nails against the table top.

"Okay. I'll leave you to it." I kiss your temple. "I'll grab a beer and watch some TV." I straighten up, but don't pull my hand from yours. Your cool, familiar touch is soothing after the afternoon's stress.

"Do either of you want a drink? Alice? D'you want a beer or a soda?"

She shakes her head. "No, thank you. We'll just get this done and I'll get out of your hair."

I wave her off. "Take your time." I squeeze your fingers as I look down at you. "Beer, babe?"

You nod. "Thanks."

I let go of your hand reluctantly. Grabbing two beers from the fridge, I rummage through the drawers, looking for a bottle opener. I eventually remember you hung it from a cord in the pantry because we got sick of losing it. I pop open two bottles, set your beer on the table, and head into our bedroom to change my shirt.

I flick on the TV set in our room and keep the volume low. Lying across our bed, a pillow stuffed behind my neck, I'm not really paying any attention to whichever politician is droning on about whatever policy platform anyway. I've only switched it on for company until you're finished with your assignment.

Rubbing my fingers across soft cotton, I frown at the comforter. I'm pretty sure it was deep purple this morning. I close my eyes and remember waking you up by pressing kisses across your bare shoulders, my hand between your legs. Images flicker in my mind, your hair spread across the pillows, your fingers twisting the sheets—yep, they were definitely purple when I climbed out of bed this morning, already running late for my eight o'clock lecture.

You must have changed the sheets and the covers after I left, because our bedspread is now sunshine yellow with little lines of embroidery or whatever it's called trailing a swirly pattern across it. I frown. When did you buy this set? Why am I even noticing the bed sheets? When can I see you naked against this backdrop?

The last thought pushes all the others into the background. It's my favorite color on you, and I'm suddenly desperate to see your dark hair and pale skin against the vivid yellow of the covers. I press the hand not curled around my beer against my crotch, groaning softly.

Only a conclusion to write, you said. That shouldn't take long.

I take a long drink from my beer, then press the cold glass to my temple. A drop of condensation trickles down the side of my face. The day is starting to catch up with me. I'm tired, my neck is stiff, and I'm fucking annoyed that Alice is still here.

I set my almost empty beer on the nightstand and fold my hands behind my head.

"Baby?"

I blink against the near-dark room like I'm expecting it to brighten. The television is off.

"Edward?"

"Yeah." I answer with a croak. Feeling disoriented and groggy, I sit up and fumble for the lamp switch.

You stand in the doorway, your expression wavering between concern and amusement. "We're finished. Alice is going now."

"Coming." Scrubbing my hands over my face, I climb off the bed.

In the kitchen, Alice is stuffing her books and pens into her bag.

You hand her a sheaf of papers. "I'll write the rest of it up in the morning and email it to you. Feel free to make any changes."

"Sure." She picks up her keys and spins them around her finger.

I figure I should play nice. "Got plans tonight, Alice?"

She looks at you as she answers. "There's a party at James's. I was going to see if you wanted to go." Her expression shifts a little. "But I guess I'll be going by myself, judging by the way Edward's looking at you."

Annoyance crawls up my spine—until you smile up at me. Your expression is open, your eyes clear. I can't tell if you're oblivious to her guilt-trip or if you're choosing to ignore it.

"It's a been a busy week," you say. "We've hardly spent any time together."

"Aw, that's cool." Alice's smile is so genuine it throws me. Maybe I misread her. I'm tired and still not quite awake, and my neck feels worse than it did before I lay down, and maybe I'm letting that get to me.

"I think we're going to Riley's on Thursday, though," you offer.

She lifts one shoulder. "Cool. I might see you there."

"Let me know, okay?" you say.

"Yep." She shifts her bag against her hip. "All right, I can tell when I've overstayed my welcome."

"No–"

"It's not–"

She cuts off our protests. "Kidding, guys." She kisses your cheek and nods in my direction. "I'll see you later."

When the door closes behind her, your sigh echoes mine.

Looking up at me, you suck on your bottom lip for a moment, your forehead creased with concern. "Baby, are you sure you're okay?"

"I am now," I say.

You slide your arms around my waist and fit your body against mine, and it makes my words true.

Your head against my chest, my cheek against your hair, I can feel your heartbeat against my ribs, and this is what I was looking for when I first got home. The rest of the world—the labs I nearly fucked up today, the research report you've got to turn in this week, the stress of finals approaching—all of it slips from my mind and this moment is all that matters.

My hand under your chin, I tip your face up and press my lips to yours. You kiss me back with an intensity that steals my breath and sets my heart racing.

My hands are under your shirt, climbing the ladder of your ribcage when you pull away.

"We should … dinner … and you're tired."

I have to smile. Wrapping my arms around your hips I pull you close, pressing my pelvis to yours. You gasp. "Does it feel like I'm tired?"

That soft whimpering noise I love falls from your lips.

You grip the waistband of my jeans as I walk you backward into our bedroom. I let go of you to pull my shirt off, and you make quick work of pulling my jeans and boxers to my ankles.

Kneeling before me, your lips part and I can feel your humid breath against my skin. I shake my head and pull you to your feet. I love that, I do, but tonight, I just want to make love to you.

With your dark hair rippling across the pillow, your eyes almost golden in the warm lamplight, your skin pale, you're stunning against the yellow. I knew you would be.

I cover your body with mine and we move together slowly, years of familiarity guiding us. When you do that, I do this, and we take our time, enjoying each other, loving the feel of being as close as two people can possibly be.

Your back arches, pressing your breasts against my chest as you come undone, and I don't think I'll ever be able to get enough of hearing you say my name like that, like you can barely manage to form the word but you just have to say it. It makes my chest expand to bursting and pushes me into my own release.

Dopey and sleepy-smiling, I help you clean up, and then we crawl under the quilt, still naked, and with our ankles tangled and our fingers entwined, we catch up on the day. I tell you about my idiot lab partner and how he not only almost screwed up our experiment, but how I caught him trying to tip organic compounds down the sink. You tell me about the Philosophy of Feminism seminar you had this morning, and the research project you and Alice are finishing up. I tell you I'm worried about trying to juggle summer school and working for my uncle, and you tell me that you've been ignoring your mom's calls for the last two days because you don't have the emotional energy to deal with her at the moment.

And as much as I love having sex with you—and I do, like, a lot—this is my favorite thing ever. When we just lie here and let the rest of the world fade into nothing, and we strip our souls as naked as our bodies.

You grow quiet after a while, lines creasing your forehead and your lip between your teeth.

I kiss your forehead, trying to smooth away the worry that rests there. "What's wrong?"

I feel more than hear your sigh. "I … I don't know."

I wriggle closer, untangling a hand and brushing your hair off your face. "Are you sure?"

You frown at me. There's a note of defensiveness in your voice. "I'd tell you if I knew. I guess … I'm probably just tired."

"Okay." I let the subject drop. "What do you want to do this weekend?"

"Nothing."

"Just a quiet one?"

"Yeah." You look past me for a moment, thinking. "We can't afford to go away somewhere, but can we have like a – what's the word? … A stay-cation?"

I squint at you. "A stay-cation?"

Your smile is small as you meet my gaze. "Yeah. Like, we stay in and pretend we're on vacation. No cooking, no cleaning, no studying. Just you and me, hanging out, having fun."

"Can we be naked the entire time?"

That makes your smile grow. "Hmm. Possibly."

Naked or not, I can't think of anything I'd like more. "Sounds kinda perfect to me."

When we get home from class on Friday afternoon, we draw the blinds, unplug the phone and lock the front door.

Sprawled on the couch, we feed each other chinese take-out—you using chopsticks and me with a fork, because I've never managed to master those stupid things—and finish a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. We watch Chicago and I pretend to hate it and you laugh at me because you know I'm enjoying it.

We sit up until after three in the morning. You kick my ass in Scrabble, then I kick yours in gin rummy, and then you pout for a while and decide you don't want to play games anymore.

"Okay," you say, when I ask you what you want to do next. "Let's play this game."

"You said you're done with games."

You poke your tongue out at me. "Card games and board games, yes. This is a … um, a people game. A talking game."

"How do I win?"

"You don't. No winning."

I laugh. "How is it a game then?"

"Stop being annoying," you say, poking me in the waist. "Listen. Okay. Imagine this. Imagine Emmett was asleep. Right there." You point to the carpet in front of the couch. "And you find out that he's going to die unless you kick him. You have to kick him as hard as you can in the ribs or he'll never ever wake up. But, if you tell him why, he dies anyway. So you kick him, and he wakes up and he says 'What the fuck did you do that for?' What would you tell him?"

What? "If I open another bottle of wine, will you have some?" I stand up, my spine cracking as I stretch.

"Yes, please. But don't think I'm going to forget to make you answer."

When we're settled on the couch again, glasses of Syrah in hand, I return to your question. "I'd just tell him I tripped over him."

You scrunch up your nose. "That might work. I think he'd still punch you, though."

I shrug. "Probably. But who cares? He'd be alive enough to punch me."

"Aww." You lean over and pat my knee. "You're such a sweetheart."

I tell you I'm not sure being called a sweetheart is something most guys want to hear, and ask you what you'd do in the same situation.

You giggle. "I'd tell him he had a huge spider crawling on him."

"But there's no spider squashed on his shirt."

You roll your eyes at me. "Okay, then I'd say I thought I saw a huge spider crawling on him. It doesn't matter. He might be pissed off, but he's not going to try and hit me."

That's true. We trade ridiculous questions back and forth for a while, getting sillier—"What would win in a fight, a shark or a rhinoceros?"—as the wine bottle empties.

"It's my turn now," you say, pointing a finger towards me. You set your empty glass on the coffee table. "All right. If you could only kiss me, or have sex with me, forever more, which would you choose?"

"What?"

"Like, if you had to pick. Kissing and no sex, or sex and no kissing. Which one?"

I shake my head. "I don't want to pick." As if I could choose!

"You have to, or you get none."

I look at you with wide eyes. "Are you being serious?"

"No. I'm being hypothetical, Edward. That's the point. Now answer the damn question."

I shrug. "Kisses."

"Really?"

"Mmm-hmm." I give you one now, tasting the wine on your lips. "Think about it," I say, moving my lips to your cheek, then your neck. "Think about all the places I can kiss you. It's an easy choice."

"Edward?"

"Yeah?" I pull back to look at you.

"I don't want to play this game anymore."

I smirk. "Really? You got a better idea?"

You nod. "Kisses," you say, your voice a little faint. "In all those places."

In the morning, I'm dragged from sleep by your cell phone vibrating on my nightstand. Groaning, I sit up.

"Leave it," you say, your voice muffled by your pillow. "We're on stay-cation. It can wait."

Rubbing my eyes open, I lean over to look at the screen—I feel like I should check who it is, on the off chance it's an emergency.

Alice Brandon

I sigh. There's a small part of me that doesn't want to tell you, but I push that selfishness away. "It's Alice."

You groan, rolling over to face me. Your hair is a mess and your cheek is flushed pink and creased with the lines of your pillowcase. You're so beautiful.

"Just leave it," you say.

Thank fuck. The little device goes still and silent. I flop back onto my pillow.

"Baby?"

Your hand sliding up my arm pushes away any lingering annoyance, replacing it with desire. Smirking, I roll us over, enjoying the way your breathing speeds and your eyes close when my lips find your collarbone. I kiss across your chest, getting distracted for a while by the feel of your hard nipples against my tongue, then making my way lower. You tangle your fingers in my hair when my shoulders are between your thighs and my mouth finds hot flesh. The noises you make … fuck … they drive me crazy, and my hips move faster against the mattress as you moan and gasp and call my name.

I crawl back up your body, enjoying the small smile that plays on your lips. I did that.

You wrinkle your nose, but you don't stop me from kissing you. "Kisses … So good," you murmur when I release your lips. You push at my shoulder, stopping me from claiming them again. I let you roll us over, and then I watch you, every nerve in my body standing on end, as you trail kisses lower and lower until your mouth is on me and my hands are in your hair and our eyes are locked. I don't last long, and I'm almost embarrassed except I can't be because it's getting you off that turns me on and I'm pretty sure there's nothing shameful in that.

We spend the rest of the afternoon dozing and kissing and teasing until I can't stand it anymore and we make love again, filling our bedroom with giggles and gasps and the sound of skin slipping against skin.

Later that evening, after dinner, as you're washing up, and I'm drying, your phone starts to vibrate across the kitchen counter.

My thumb finds a knot of tension in my neck as I look down at it. "It's Alice again."

Your lips pursed, you hesitate, then reach for the dishcloth I'm holding. Drying your hands, you look between me and your buzzing cell phone.

"Answer it, if you need to." Please don't answer it.

"I–I mean, I told her what we were doing … that I wouldn't be around at all this weekend."

Settling my hands on your hips, I duck my head to meet your gaze. "Then leave it."

"Okay."

The tension doesn't leave your body. I sigh. "Babe–"

"It must be important then, right? If she's calling, knowing we were going off the radar for the weekend?"

I don't want to fight with you, not this weekend, not when we promised we'd spend the weekend focused only on us. My forehead against your shoulder, I pull you close. You resist me for a moment, and it stings, but then your body moulds to mine, your hands sliding around my waist.

"Why don't you text her? Check what's up. Maybe she just forgot we had plans." Somehow I doubt that.

"Okay." You make no move to reach for your phone, which surprises me. Lifting my head, I unwind an arm from your waist to cup your cheek. When you look up at me, I can see the conflict in your eyes.

"You know," I hesitate, but then push on, because I don't know if you've ever thought about this. "You don't have to. It's okay. You don't have to be there for her every minute of every day. You can't. It's not possible, and it's … it's not fair for her to expect you to."

"I know." Your eyes are on the now silent phone. Shaking your head, you sigh. "No. I said this weekend was about us—I told her that. She can wait 'til Monday."

The tightness in my chest that I'd been trying to pretend wasn't there loosens.

I put the dry glasses away, and reach for your hand. "You wanna watch a movie? Play a game?"

You shake your head. "No, not really."

"Um …" I wonder what else we can do. "Read?"

You grin. "Will you read to me?"

Like I'd say no to you. "What am I reading?"

"Whatever you want."

I grab the first book my fingers touch from the shelf—a slightly worn copy of The Kite Runner, and you lie with your head in my lap as I start reading. You're asleep before I even get to page twenty.

Tenting the book on the coffee table, I stroke the hair off your face, watching the way your eyelids twitch as you dream. I wonder how much to read into the lines that crease your brow and the purse of your lips.

I tell myself not to worry. You've always been open with me.

Sunday is beautiful. The rain drums against the windows, and jagged bolts of lightning cut across the sky as thunder rumbles overhead. It's a perfect day to stay holed up in our apartment. We stay in bed until lunchtime, just talking and kissing and being together. We needed this.

After lunch, we take turns in the shower. As much as I'd like to shower with you, there's just not enough room. We've tried before—a number of times, just to make sure—and it's far more irritating than it is sexy, stepping on each others toes and your elbows jabbing me in the belly.

I come out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my waist, wondering if I can tempt you back to bed.

"Yeah, I understand … No, no. It's okay … It's fine." You're standing at the window, turned away from me. You're holding your cell phone to your ear, your other hand tugging the end of your ponytail. "Yep … Okay … No, he won't mind at all … Okay. I'll be there soon, sweetie."

You don't turn around immediately. The hand holding your cell phone drops to your side, and the other comes to your temple, massaging tight circles—the way you do when you're developing a tension headache. You stare out at the rain beating down, seemingly unaware of my presence.

"Everything okay?"

You turn around slowly, your eyes on the floor. The name I expect falls from your lips. "Alice …"

I push a hard breath through my nose. Be calm. "What about her?"

"She's … she needs me, Edward. She's not doing so good."

I rub a hand over my face, squeezing my eyes closed, like I can block out my frustration somehow. "I thought … fuck. Bella …" This was supposed to be our weekend. And maybe it's selfish and petty of me, when I've had you to myself since Friday night, but the weekend isn't over yet.

I take a deep breath and try again. "It really can't wait until tomorrow?"

"No, it can't." You fold your arms across your chest. "I'm sorry, I know we said this weekend was all about us, but we've had quite a bit of time together and I just – it's selfish of me to not go to her when she's really down."

Maybe she's spun some guilt-trip on you, playing on your tender heart to make you think sticking to our original plan is selfishness on your part. "It's not selfish," I say.

"What?"

"It's not selfish of you to stay here … with me. No matter what she insinuated. You don't have to drop everything for her everytime she calls."

"What do you mean insinuated? She didn't insinuate anything. She just asked me if I could come over and spend some time with her because she's really struggling this weekend. It would have been her parents' wedding anniversary."

How convenient. "Of course it would."

"What? You think she'd lie about something like that?" You tip your head at me, your eyes narrowing. "Do you think she's lying? Why – why would you even think that?"

Everything I've been wanting to say for months tumbles out into the space between us. "Because, babe, this is what she does. She manipulates and uses you when she's feeling like crap. She can't stand you being happy, so she – she finds ways of dragging you down. You told her we'd be keeping to ourselves this weekend. Did she say anything then about her parents, about it being a hard weekend for her? She – it's almost like she wants to cause problems between us."

"I think you're being ridiculous," you say. You close your eyes like you're trying to stop yourself from rolling them at me. "It's not – it's not all about you, Edward."

I turn my back on you, fists at my sides, and try to swallow my anger. "I know it's not all about me. I'm not concerned about me right now. I'm concerned about you, and the way she—even though she constantly belittles you and manipulates you—expects you to drop everything for her. I'm not concerned about what I'm missing out on, Bella."

Turning back to face you, I continue. "I'm concerned – fuck – about what you're missing out on. I'm concerned that she's taking advantage of you, and I'm concerned that she doesn't show you the same care and kindness when you need it."

Uncertainty creases your brow, and I can see the confusion in your eyes. You close them for a moment, chewing on your lip. When you look at me again, I see guilt cross your face before your expression hardens. "Are you saying I can't go?"

"Have I – would I ever say you can't do something?" I shake my head. "I'm asking you not to go."

You go.

You pull on some jeans, tie your hair back, grab your bag, and then you're gone.

I spend the afternoon watching shitty television programs. I eat cereal for dinner, then lie down on the couch, waiting for you to come home.

I'm still lying there when my alarm goes off the next morning.

For the next few days, the tension in our little home is uncomfortable. You're still angry with me, and I'm too chicken shit to say anything to you for fear it will just make things worse. We eat dinner in silence, and go to bed earlier than we normally would.

By Wednesday night, I can't take it anymore. I flick off the television. "Can we talk?"

You stand up. "My head hurts. I'm going to bed."

"Bella–"

"Goodnight."

I should've skipped my organic chemistry lecture. I look at the pages of chemical equations in front of me, and they blur together. The powerpoint slides projected on the screen at the front of the theater might as well be in Greek, for all I'm managing to understand.

The end of my day can't come fast enough. I need to be with you, and we need to talk.

When class finally finishes—what seems like three days later—I decide to walk home from campus, rather than catch the bus as I usually do. Sunny weather in Seattle is a rarity, and I want to enjoy the last of it. I pull my sweater off and stuff it in my bag. The sunshine on my skin can't warm the chill that sits deep in my chest, but I choose to take it as a good sign. An omen or whatever.

I make my way home slowly, stepping over the cracks in the pavement the way I watched Rosie do it last summer. In the corner of my mind that's not preoccupied with thinking about how to fix things up with you, I remind myself to Skype my family. It's Rosie's birthday next week and I've been a pretty shitty big brother of late. I wonder if you'll agree to head back to Forks to surprise her. I'll have to check with Mom—and pray that we're okay by then.

I shake my head, like I can dislodge that thought. We'll be fine.

Trudging up the stairs to our floor, I start turning over ideas, wondering if there's some kind of gesture I could make to show you how much you matter to me. But you're not really a rose petals and bubble-baths kind of girl.

Unlocking the front door, I realize what I have to do. I have to trust your judgement, even when I think you're wrong. My first instinct is to protect you, but you don't need my protection. You need me to respect your decisions, even if I think you're falling headlong toward hurt. And if that happens there should be no "I told you so," only "I'm here for you," and "I love you."

With the afternoon sun sliding golden and warm through the grimy kitchen windows, our apartment is quiet but for hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic plink-plink of the leaking kitchen tap. I've called the landlord twice this week to see about getting that fixed, but I think I'm going to end up having to do it myself. Shouldn't be too hard—I'll go to the hardware store after class tomorrow and grab some O-rings and washers.

Stepping out of my shoes, I toss them into the bright green bucket by the door. I dump my books and my messenger bag on the kitchen table, and then shake my head at myself as I imagine your eyebrows arching. I scoop up my books and set them on the sideboard with my keys and wallet, and hang my bag on the hook beside yours.

I frown at the worn red leather bag. I wasn't expecting you to be home yet. You have classes all afternoon on a Thursday, and you usually don't get home until after six o'clock.

I open the bedroom door, and my heart feels lead-heavy in my chest as I look down at you.

Sunlight spills across your face, shining on the tears that are dripping down your cheeks, soaking a dark patch in the yellow pillow case.

"Bella?"

You sniffle, but don't answer me. Your arms tighten around your pillow. No, my pillow. It registers that you're curled up on my side of the bed.

"What's going on? Headache? Are you sick?" I lean over and press the back of my hand to your forehead. You're warm but not feverish. "Are you okay, beautiful?"

You catch my hand, your clammy fingers closing around my wrist. "No." You tug once, then release me with a stifled sob.

No, you're not sick, or no, you're not okay?

"Hey." Lifting the edge of the comforter, I climb into bed, forcing you to wriggle over a little to make room for me. I put my hand on your waist under the covers and press my lips to your cheek. They come away wet with your tears.

You look at me, finally. Your eyes are rimmed with red and your face is streaked with the grey and black residue of your mascara. "I'm sorry." The words hang over us, quiet and broken.

"No, no. Babe, you have nothing to be sorry for."

I speak, the words tumbling out to fill the silence stretching between us. "I'm sorry. I was wrong to push you about Alice. She's your friend, and if you needed to go see her, then – I'm sorry. Of course you should go. I guess I was being a bit selfish."

You pull my hand off your hip and thread your fingers through mine.

"I'm sorry, babe." I kiss your temple. "I love you."

"Thank you for saying that." Your voice is scratchy and hoarse. You lift your head and kiss my cheek. Pushing on my shoulder, you wriggle until you're lying half on me, our legs tangled. I run my fingers through your hair, enjoying the weight of your head on my chest, the beat of your heart against my ribs, and the warmth of your forgiveness.

I'm almost sure you're asleep when you speak, your voice soft. "I had a fight with Alice this morning."

Despite the conversation I had with myself on the way home, it takes some effort to stay silent.

"I want to tell you about it," you say. "But I need you to listen to me, and I need you to not jump to conclusions."

You words sting a little, but I let them slide. "Okay."

You sigh, lifting your head, and pushing your hair away from your face. "It wasn't really a big deal. She made some sarcastic comment and I over-reacted. I can't even remember what she said."

I wait.

"So we sort of had a fight. Because I told her that sometimes her comments hurt more than she realizes, and she thinks I've become over-sensitive because I'm listening to you too much and you don't like her."

"I–"

You hold up your finger and I swallow the words back down.

"I think we're both right, Edward. Both Alice and I, I mean. We talked for a long time, and we realized that I take things to heart when she means nothing by it, and she's been kind of careless with my feelings."

You blow out a deep breath. "She apologized. She admitted she often speaks first and thinks later, and that sometimes she's too harsh."

I nod. I appreciate her admitting that.

"But I–I need to not feel caught between the two of you. I know you don't trust her, and I try to see your point of view, and sometimes, I can. She can come across as catty—if I'm looking for offense, I can find it."

My heart sinks like a stone.

"And then when I try to see her point of view, I realize she doesn't mean to hurt me. And I just … I love you both, but it's really hard on me. I love you, Edward, so much. But she's my best friend, and even when she is being a smart-ass, she cares for me, like, a lot."

All this time, I thought I was being the bigger person and not trying to come between you, and yet I've managed to do it anyway.

Your hand on my chest, the smile you offer me is small and full of understanding. "Do you think that maybe you've been, I don't know, not imagining things, but seeing what you expected to?"

"I don't–" I clear my throat. "What do you mean?"

"I guess … you and I became close just after Alice had really hurt me. And for a while there, she was pretty awful to me. And I think … maybe, you haven't let go of that. I know it's because you worry for me, because you care for me and want to protect me, but maybe you're kind of looking for things, reading too much into offhand remarks because you've built up a picture of who Alice is in your head?"

My denial is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back. I need to think.

Closing my eyes, I flip through countless memories, trying to look at them from different angles. I see you smiling. I see the two of you dissolving into giggles. I see you, heads bent together, eyes serious, as you engage in conversation. And while I still see that flash of hurt in your eyes occasionally, I have a lot more memories of the two of you enjoying each others' company.

She has been a good friend to you. I have to admit that. Through your senior year, she was always there for you—when I couldn't be. The barista gig I took that year meant I could save the money that's cushioning us through college now, but it also meant long hours and the frustration of not being able to see you as much as I wanted to. It meant there were weekends where we hardly saw each other. And she was always there for you. You both put that incident behind you, and fell back on twelve years of unbiological-sisterhood.

Maybe you're right. Maybe in wanting so much to be "on your side," I've actually created the sides—when there shouldn't be any.

"Edward?" The hesitance in your voice draws me back to the present.

"I think–" I scrub a hand over my face. "I just … I never wanted to see you hurt again after that shit with Jasper, and the thing with your birthmark, and I …" I push out a breath. Admitting I'm wrong sucks. So does realizing I've caused you so much hurt.

"I'm sorry. I–I … old habits are …" I shake my head. I don't want to make excuses. "You're right, I haven't been seeing things clearly, and I didn't even see how hard I was making things for you. I never meant to make you feel caught between us. I'm so sorry."

"Thank you, Edward."

You smile up at me, and I know that's that. Done. We're all good.

You forgive so easily. It's who you are, and it's one of the things I've always loved about you. You forgave Alice, and I remember being amazed by it. I remember falling harder for you as I watched you put aside your hurt and love her when she needed your support.

And now that that forgiveness is directed at me?

I fall in love with you all over again.

I fall so hard that I wonder if this is how I'll spend the rest of my life, with this giddy feeling that has bottom of my stomach dropping out and my heart accelerating.

I hope so.

Summer flies past, a whirlwind of work and summer school and sleeping late on Sundays and making love to you, and it feels like we've barely had time to relax before the fall semester starts.

I don't mind though. This is our life for now, juggling classes and part-time jobs, pulling all-nighters to get assignments done and cramming before exams. We're busy, but we're together, and as hectic as it is, I love our life.

And of course, when things get too much and we're missing each other too hard, one of us will demand a stay-cation, and we stock the fridge, lock our front door and let the rest of the world go to hell.

We see a lot of Alice, too. I watch the two of you, as I always have, but now, I try to look at things in a new light. It takes me some time—old habits do die hard—but when I start to look for reasons to like her, the ways she's good to you, I can find them.

Like the smile you wear around her, or the way your giggles ring through our apartment when the two of you get together. Or the way she she drops over a casserole with the notes you missed when you spend a week in bed with the 'flu.

And the more I grow to like her, the warmer she seems to be. Not just toward you, but me as well.

The music is pulsing in the house behind us, but out in the yard it's quiet enough for conversation. With a barely-sipped beer in one hand, you're standing with a couple of girls you go to school with, and I'm half-listening to your conversation as some guy I've met several times, but whose name I always forget, tells me all about his plans to revolutionize the Seattle restaurant scene. He's drunk and his words are falling all over each other.

"So, Bella," some girl says. There's a nasty undercurrent in her voice that catches my attention. "I've never really understood why you're a Women's Studies major when you're obviously not a feminist."

"What makes you think I'm not?" Your voice is quiet.

"Girl, you've been dating the same guy since high school. That doesn't exactly scream liberated, if you know what I mean."

I frown, and wobbly-drunk guy waves a finger at me. "You'll see. You'll see, man. I'm a … I have all these ideas. So many ideas. And I just get people, you know? I get them."

"Of course you do," I say.

Another girl joins the conversation. "Seriously. Have you even slept with anyone else?"

"I–"

"Hmm, so calling a woman a slut is unacceptable, but it's okay to mock her for not sleeping around enough?" Alice interrupts. "My bad, I thought the key thing was her choice. You know, a woman's right to live out her choices, without judgement."

I've noticed that before, the way she slides into your conversations, and I'd always read it as her wanting to be the center of attention. But hearing the way your voice strengthens now, I realize I've misread her—again. This is Alice's equivalent of a clap on your shoulder, her "I've got your back." This is her being a good friend to you.

"Exactly. Whether I sleep with dozens of men, or only one, Kim, that's my choice. I'd be well within my rights to do either."

Hearing the debate pick up behind me, you and Alice tag-teaming as you challenge Kim and her friend, I have to grin.

The drunk dude's eyes go wide. "I like chicks, man," he says, patting my arm. "You're pretty, but that's not my thing."

This guy's a riot. He wobbles away, shaking his head.

I glance over my shoulder. You shoot me a wink and I blow you a kiss.

Alice rolls her eyes at us. "Edward, I need another beer."

I chuckle. "On it."

The days are growing shorter and colder, and it's already dark by the time I step off the bus. I shiver as I jog up the stairs to our apartment. It's going to be a stupidly cold winter, I think.

A burst of warmth envelopes me as I step inside, and I start shucking my jacket before the door's swung closed.

"Edward?"

"Yep."

You wander out of the bedroom, holding two dresses on their hangers, and wearing only a pair of black lace panties. I'm pretty sure my jaw comes to rest on the toes of my chucks.

"Which one?"

Colorful fabric swishes across my field of vision, obscuring your breasts.

"Huh?"

You giggle. "Focus, baby. Which dress should I wear tonight?"

"Yeah." I step toward you, but you hold up the dresses like a shield.

"Don't," you say, but I can hear your smile. "We don't have time. We have to leave in fifteen minutes and I haven't put my makeup on yet."

I pout. "But–"

"But nothing. I'm not going to have Alice sitting there smirking at me through the entire meal when we turn up late. You can do whatever you want to me when we get home."

I groan. You're trying to kill me, I know it. Now I'm going to spend the entire night imagining all the things I want to do with you when I get you back home.

"I think I'll wear the yellow one."

You're evil.

You laugh, like you're reading my mind. "Come on, hornball. You need to get changed."

Half an hour later, we're seated in the swanky-looking restaurant. I tap my watch to remind you that I behaved and we're here on time.

You press a kiss to my cheek. "Thanks, baby. I'll make it up to you."

Alice slides into the booth opposite us with a smile I can now read as nervous. "Thanks so much for doing this."

You reach across the table and pat her hand. "Any time, sweetie."

She nods, and then rolls her shoulders. Her fingernails drum against the wood tabletop for a moment before she snatches them away. "I love your dress, Bel," she says. "That color looks amazing on you."

When you asked me how I felt about double-dating, I wasn't exactly enthusiastic. I mean, why would I want to do that when I could just take you out and have you all to myself? But you seemed so excited, and hell, I'm all for anything that's going to make you happy.

And then you explained that Alice was freaking out about a blind date another friend had set her up on, and that she'd be more comfortable if there were other people there, too, and I couldn't say no.

I didn't want to, either.

Which is how I find myself, my thigh pressed against yours, sizing up this punk sitting across from me as he answers my questions about his job and his friends and his hobbies.

His name is Garrett, and to be honest, he seems kind of cool. I wonder what the ethics of that are? If Alice doesn't want to see him again, is it against the dating-rules for me to ask her for his number?

Though, the way she's smiling at him, her eyes crinkled with laughter, I have a feeling we're going to see this dude again.

My suspicions are confirmed when we're standing on the pavement outside the restaurant, and I see Alice whip out her diary. I watch them for a moment, playing with your fingers.

She smiles up at him, and I have to look away as they do the awkward "do we shake, hug, or kiss goodbye?" dance. I don't know which they choose.

You tug my hand. "Home?"

I grin. "Let's go." You made a promise earlier this evening, and I intend to collect on it.

Alice calls out as I'm pulling my keys from my pocket. "Bella. Edward."

We turn back and she catches up to us quickly. "Just … thanks so much. I know you probably had better things to do on a Friday night."

I shake my head at her. "It's fine. Let's do it again soon."

"Seriously?" She raises her eyebrows

"Sure," I tell her. "We had fun." I look at you. "Well, I had fun."

You smile, shaking your head and winking at Alice. "We had fun."

Her eyes blink fast. I think she's touched. "Thank you," she says.

"No problem."

You kiss her cheek, and I give her a brief hug. "We'll see ya soon."

It's my grandmother who puts the idea in my head. She corners me in the kitchen after Thanksgiving lunch, where I'm helping my mom, rinsing the dishes before she stacks them in the dishwasher. You're in the living room, playing card games with Rosie, and we'll be heading over to cook dinner for your Dad as soon as Nan's kitchen is clean.

"Esme, I need to steal Edward for a moment," she says.

Mom smiles at my raised eyebrows. "He's all yours." She winks at me.

I follow Nan down the hallway, wrinkling my nose when she opens her bedroom door.

"Oh, hush," she says. "Come on."

The scent of lavender and soap makes me feel six years old again.

Nan shuffles around to her bedside table, opening up her jewelry box and poking around inside. She nods to herself as she picks up something small.

She sits down on the edge of her bed and pats the comforter. "Come here."

Bemused, I sit beside her. She extends her age-spotted hand to me.

"Um–"

"It was my first engagement ring," she tells me, placing the tarnished gold ring in my hand. Its stone is missing, its claws empty.

"Your first? Nan … You and Pa–" The thought of my grandmother with someone else is just too much. She and my grandfather were married for more than fifty years.

"Oh, don't be silly, boy." She chuckles. "Your grandfather gave me this one, too. I lost it, you see, so he bought me this one–" she taps her left hand "–to replace it. We only found it when we moved house. Goodness, that was … well, it was missing for about ten years, I suppose."

I don't really know what to say, so I state the obvious. "It's missing the stone."

"It's here," she says, tapping her chest. A tiny diamond dangles from her necklace.

"Okay." I still have no idea where she's going with this.

She seems to realize I'm clueless, sighing and patting my knee. "It might not be to her tastes, but if it is, you could always have another stone set in it, you know."

"Uh–" I look at the ring, then back at my grandmother.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Edward. You are going to ask Isabella to marry you, are you not?"

"Of course." The answer is automatic, and the words are already out of my mouth when I finally understand. "Oh. Oh."

Nan shakes her head. "As I said, she might prefer something different, but I just wanted you to have this. In case." Her gaze seemingly fixes on something far away.

I look at her for a moment, my eyes narrowing. "You mean you wanted to put the idea of proposing to her in my head."

Nan's smile is sly. "Perhaps." She takes the ring from me, sliding it onto her pinky finger. "It'll clean up easily enough," she says. "It's rose gold. A little unusual, perhaps."

Looking at the delicate metalwork against her age-lined skin, my throat feels a little tight. I imagine Bella's hands that wrinkly, her skin paper-thin and marked with the years we'll have spent loving each other. I swallow hard. "It's perfect. Thank you, Nan."

She pats my back when I wrap my arms around her, hugging her as tight as I dare.

"Find a pretty rock to fit it, and marry that sweet girl, Edward."

As soon as we get back to Seattle after the Christmas break, I start diamond hunting. I learn all about the four Cs of diamonds—cut, clarity, color and carat weight—and within a few weeks, I've found the perfect stone.

I'm looking at the diamond resting on the black velvet, listening to this old guy with lines around his eyes and mouth so deep I'm convinced he's spent his whole life smiling assure me in his thick accent that it will fit Nan's ring "most perfect, young sir," when a random thought enters my mind, and I experience a strange moment of gratitude in the most peculiar direction.

I never imagined I would entertain this thought, but in this moment, I'm grateful … to Alice.

Sitting on the black fabric, the diamond shines bright, it's clarity and brilliance enhanced by the dull and dark background. Light scatters tiny rainbows as it's refracted through the gemstone.

Even as I lift my head to smile at the old jeweler, nodding my approval, I'm seeing you sitting against the brick wall of the gym at Forks High School, a cigarette between your lips and a bag of ice held against your bruised knuckles.

I hated seeing you hurting, but over four years later, I find it hard to be anything but thankful.

I know she meant to dull your shine. But really, all she did was show everyone how strong you really are. And that one act of spitefulness opened the door of your life to me. You let me in that day, and ever since, I've been lucky enough to see you in all your brilliance and beauty.

And I got to fall in love with you.

I smile to myself. I'm already compiling ideas for my speech at our wedding. Note to self: thank Alice for kissing Jasper. Wait, is that too weird? Nah. We're good, she and Garrett are going strong—we can all laugh about that day now.

"She's a lucky girl." The jeweler smiles at me, his eyes squinty. He points, not at the diamond, but at me. "I see the love all over your face. That's very special."

"No," I say, shaking my head. "I'm the lucky one."

He nods. "Good boy. You remember that, you will have a very long, very happy marriage."

After I pick up the ring, its newly-set diamond a perfect fit, I carry it with me for a few weeks. I don't have a plan, yet, but I have this strange feeling that somehow I'll just know when the right time is, and I don't want to be caught without it when that time shows up.

We've talked about getting married a few times, so I'm confident you will say yes. We've agreed we're in no hurry, but it's a life's-so-busy-it-can-wait kind of patience, not an I'm-not-sure-about-you-forever hesitation.

So, it's always in my pocket, in its dark red velvet box—through my inorganic chemistry labs, at work with me, in the library when I meet with my study group. I grow impatient quickly, wanting to see how it looks on your finger, wanting to see your smile when you say "yes."

I start to get frustrated, looking for that perfect moment to ask you to be my wife, and finding none.

And then, we're sitting on the couch in our cramped apartment, with our textbooks and papers forming wobbly towers on the coffee table, and a few empty beer bottles scattered between them. My hand is in my pocket, rubbing the lid of the little box I carry everywhere, and I realize there's no "perfect moment," because every moment with you is perfect. And whenever I ask you will be special and memorable, because it will be the moment I'll ask you to marry me, and the moment that you'll say yes.

I grab the remote from you and flick the television off.

"Hey! I was watching that."

"I know. But I need to ask you something."

Maybe you hear something in my voice, because you stop trying to grab the remote back from me. Your hand on my knee, you smile. "Okay."

"Bella, I love you."

You smile, waiting. Maybe you already know. Maybe you can hear the way my voice shakes, a little with nerves, but mostly with the excitement I've been trying to suppress for weeks now.

I take your hands, my thumb grazing the knuckles of your right hand, remembering them scraped and bruised, and holding them for the first time with a bag of ice freezing my fingers.

"You know, I think I fell in love with you when you told me you liked me more than you liked banana bread."

You laugh. "I'm pretty sure there was a 'might' in there somewhere. I said I might have liked you more."

"Shush, silly girl. I'm trying to be sweet and stuff."

"Oh, sorry. Carry on."

"Thanks." I chuckle. "It was something so small, but it was something that showed me something really special about you. I thought I was in deep then."

I lick my lips. "Babe, I want to love you more every single day. I want to wake up every morning loving you more than I did the night before." I let go of your hands and bring the prematurely-worn box from my pocket. "Bella, will you marry me? Will you let me love you more every day for the rest of our lives?"

I was right—I'll never forget this moment. I'll never forget your smile, or the tears sparkling in your eyes, or the way your hand shakes as you lift it so I can slide the ring onto your finger.

I'll never forget your answer.

"Obviously."

A/N: Thank you for reading, my lovelies! I appreciate all your support and reviews. :)

Believey - you're my favourite colour. Thank you for your time, your advice, your honesty, your wisdom, your kindness, and your friendship.

Love, Shell x

P.S. What's next? I have another short fic I'm working on. I won't be posting until it's complete, and I'd say it's probably a third done at the moment.