My thanks to Hadley Hemingway for her magic beta-wand waving, and her encouragement.

BelieveItOrNot... Girl, I love you heaps. Enjoy!

Chapter 5.

I wake several times through the night. Each time, anxiety grabs hold of me, my lungs and stomach in its vise grip, until the smell of your shampoo registers. It settles over me like a blanket, soft and comforting. It's a new fragrance, but somehow still flowery and familiar.

Sometime before dawn, I have a strange dream. Vines carrying tiny white blossoms creep around the railings of what looks like one of those garden gazebos. Except I know, in the way you know such things in dreams, that it's actually a birdcage. A birdcage with no bars. You're with me, and we're sitting on a bench in the center of the cage. We're deep in conversation. When I wake, I don't remember what we were saying, but the anxiety that plagued me through the night has drained away, leaving only a shadow of confusion.

You're still asleep, snuffling a little, your back to me. Blue-grey shadows stretch across the room as morning's wintery light seeps in.

Your hair is everywhere, a few stray strands on my pillow, your sleeve, my sleeve—I'm always picking long strands of hair off my clothing, even when I haven't seen you for days. I used to joke you were like a molting cat, which made you scrunch your nose because you don't really like cats. Well, that's not exactly right. You want to like them but your grandmother's bad-tempered tabby scratched you one too many times when you were a kid so you've always been kind of nervous around them.

Tentatively—not wanting to wake you, but half-wishing you'd rouse—I run my fingers through the ends of your hair. You've told me what it's called, the way your color moves from dark brown through maroon to vibrant red, but I can't remember the word. My fingers catch on one of the little braids I watched you weave last night and you mutter something in your sleep. I pull my hand away as you roll toward me. Your eyes, still smudged with day-old makeup, stay closed.

If you were anyone but you, watching you sleep would be weird and kind of creepy. But I've startled awake on more than one occasion to find us nose to nose, your eyes full of laughter as you tell me that I've been snoring like a chainsaw. And there was that one time I forgot you were there until I heard you choking and calling me a disgusting, gross boy and well, I didn't live it down for weeks. You still insist that girls don't fart and I'll never, ever tell you this, but I know you do.

You mumble again and pull the comforter up around your neck and I realise that, at some point during the night, you must've woken and stripped off your black sweater, because you're just wearing a simple tank top now.

A few moments pass and then your socked feet touch mine and you speak, your voice scratchy and low. "Morning."

"Hey."

"What time is it?"

I lift up to look at the clock above my desk. "Only seven-thirty."

You hide a yawn behind your hand. "Okay."

It's only then that I remember you're not supposed to be here. "Is your mom picking you up from Alice's?"

"Mmm." You yawn again. "No. I told her I'd get Alice to drop me at home."

"Okay."

You wriggle in closer; your hand finds my shirt and you tuck your head under my chin. Wisps of your hair tickle my neck as I fold my arm around you.

This is new.

All the times we've shared a bed, it's never been like this. Neither of us are cuddlers. Or maybe I am and I just didn't know it until now. Because this? This feels right. You fit against me like you were made to snuggle in there, your face against my chest and my chin on top of your head. Or maybe it's not that we're not made like this, it's that we're each good at shaping ourself to the other.

We just stay like that, snuggled in close, as the shadows grow shorter and the world outside my window starts to wake.

A few cars rumble past. Someone a few houses up starts a lawn mower and the smell of cut grass follows a few minutes later. Little kids spill out of their houses, their laughter and chatter filling the air.

I open my eyes and look down at you and you're looking at me. And your mouth is just there and I really want to kiss you. I lick my lips.

It's been years since I kissed you. It was only that one time, maybe four years ago, and I was more focused on my fingers as they slipped inside your panties than I was on the touch of our lips, the feel of your mouth on mine.

Isn't that weird? That I can't really remember what kissing you felt like?

But now that I'm thinking about it, it's like it's the only thing I can think about.

You're still staring at me, and I'm still staring at your lips and I really, really want to just press my mouth to yours and see what happens.

So I do.

And you don't move. I hear your tiny intake of breath and then… nothing. It's like you freeze and oh, shit, I've fucked up, haven't I?

I start to pull away when I feel your fingers twist into my shirt front. You hold me there, close enough to feel your breath against my lips.

"What are you doing?" It's just a whisper.

"I–" I lean my forehead against yours, wishing we could do that thing, what's it called? Osmosis? If I could just pour everything that's flooding through my brain into yours, would you understand why I suddenly need to kiss you?

But the only way I can transfer my thoughts to you is through that medium that's scary as hell, but the one we've always been so good at: honesty.

So I tell you. I pull back so I can look you in the eye and I take a deep breath and I hope I'm not about to ruin everything that matters.

"I think I love you."

"You think?"

I pause, searching your eyes and I think I see something there in the way they're kind of shining. So I tell you. "I know. I love you. I'm in love with you."

You close your eyes and it looks like there's a tear caught in your eyelashes and I don't know what that means and I think I'm going to be sick. My stomach twists and it feels as though my heart is slamming itself against my sternum, like its desperate to escape.

"When?"

That's a hard question to answer. "I figured it out last night," I tell you. "But it was like… It was as if I was just realizing something I'd always known."

You laugh, just a shaky exhale of breath. "Took you long enough."

What does that mean?

"Bella, I… Do…" The words keep breaking up in my mouth, refusing to be coerced into speech.

But in my head, I'm shouting: Open your eyes. Talk to me. Tell me you feel the same. Tell me you don't. Just… please, show me where I stand.

Your hand on my cheek slows the rising panic. "Calm down."

How do you do that? Even with your eyes closed. Maybe with your hand still curled against my chest you can feel my heart racing.

Or maybe it's just because you know me so well.

Maybe it's because you love me, too.

It happens again. The world tilts on its axis and realigns.

I pick up one of the tiny braids and run my fingers along its length. When I reach the end, I twist it around my finger.

You love me.

I know you do. I can feel it, see it, give a million examples to illustrate it.

There's nothing I'm more certain of than your love. Since we were nine years old, you've been my best friend, the person who loved me unconditionally, even when it meant kicking my ass. You've even loved me enough to risk our friendship, to push me into getting help when I needed it.

But there's love and there's love, isn't there?

And there's this little braid in my hand.

And there's the pink spreading across your cheeks.

"Open your eyes," I say.

And there's that. The way you're looking up at me. Smiling with your lips and your eyes.

"You love me," I tell you, like you don't know.

You chuckle and, God, I love to hear you laugh.

"Yeah." You untangle your fingers from my shirt and smooth your hand across the few inches of pillowcase that separates us. "Yeah, I do."

I push up on my elbow and lean over to kiss you, but then I stop and pull back again. "When did you know?"

"After that shit with Pete." You touch my lips with your fingertips. I kiss them and you don't move them away.

"I realized I… This makes me sound awful. But I realized I was more jealous than I was angry."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I was pissed off. Of course I was. I was furious with those narrow-minded, bigoted, dumbass, sons of bitches." You shake your head. "But I was jealous, too."

"Jealous?"

"Yeah. Everyone thought you were into Pete and, even though I knew you weren't, I had all these weird feelings going on and it just kind of hit me that it was because I wanted you to be into me."

"I–I'm…" I feel like I should apologize or something. And I want to ask if it's been hurting you, feeling this way, but no matter how I construct the words in my head, they won't line up neatly.

"Hey." You smooth your fingertips across my forehead, trying to chase away my frown. "It's all right. I mean, at first I tried to talk myself out of how I felt, but you know how stubborn I can be."

I snicker because mules have got nothing on you.

"And then… I guess, I figured I'd just wait. And while I waited, I watched. And–" your hand slides down to my cheek, curves around it "–watching, I just had this feeling that… Well, hope doesn't seem like the right word, because it makes you think of a wish, doesn't it? And it was something firmer than that."

I don't know what to say.

"More like… trust." You smile. "Yeah, that's it. I trusted that soon enough, you'd figure it out, too. We're just– It feels right, doesn't it?"

I press my lips to yours and kiss you for the first time. Just once, just the slightest pressure of my mouth against yours before I pull back. "Yeah, it does."

And then I kiss you again.

It escalates quickly. Lips and tongues and hot breath and you're tugging on my shirt trying to pull me on top of you. I don't resist. Your hair gets caught under my elbow as I move to hold myself over you without smothering you, and you wince as you tug it free.

"Sorry."

I think you say it doesn't matter but coherency gets lost in the press of your mouth against mine, in the slide of our tongues and your hands in my hair. And you have to be able to feel me, the way my body is responding, the way I want you, but it feels like maybe you want me, too, the way you're writhing beneath me.

Somewhere in a corner of my mind, it occurs to me that this has happened pretty fast. In less than twenty-four hours you've gone from my best friend to the girl I'm in love with… to the girl I really want to strip out of her clothes and make love to. And once I notice that thought tucked back there, it starts to grow, looming into the foreground and obscuring everything else until I have to pull back and gasp out,

"Wait."

You shake your head, your lips brushing mine, and mumble something about having waited long enough.

"Exactly," I say. I push up onto my elbow and sweep your hair out of your face. Sweat beads on your temples, curling the hair there. You're flushed and it looks good on you.

"If we've taken this long to get here, why rush things?"

"Why wait?" You counter.

I groan, because you're rocking your pelvis beneath me and, if my mind wants to slow things down a little, the rest of my body is definitely not in agreement. "Bella… I should at least– Let me take you out on a date first."

You stop moving and I think you've seen reason. But then you give me a smile, and it's one I know. It's close-lipped, smug and self-satisfied, and it's the smile that tells me whatever argument we're about to have, you're pretty confident you're going to win it.

"Edward? What's the point of dating?"

That stings and I'm sure my face falls. "You don't want to–"

You stop me, fingers to my lips.

"No, I mean in general. Like, why do people date?"

"To get to know each other." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know you've just gotten me to play the trump card for you.

"Do you seriously think there's anyone on the face of the earth that knows me better than you do?"

Apparently you weren't asking rhetorically, because you lift your eyebrow and look at me expectantly until I answer.

"No."

"And does anyone know you better than I do?"

Rather than admit you're right—verbally, at least—I kiss you. Hard.

Your tongue slides against mine and your hands are back in my hair and you tug and the ache makes me grunt into your mouth and thrust my hips against you, which makes you gasp into my mouth and it seems like every move I make ignites something in you which makes you move and that sparks something in me until we're tugging at each other's clothes, and I'm too drunk on the way you're kissing me to be able to figure out how to let go of you long enough to pull your tank top off.

You stop kissing me and push on my chest. I sit up on my knees and you follow, tugging at the hem of my shirt. You pull it over my head and I don't notice where you toss it.

I watch you pull your tank top off, but when you arch and reach back to undo your bra, I tell you to wait.

"Just let me look for a moment," I say, when you look like you're going to argue with me.

You relax back down onto the mattress, smirking up at me. I really have no idea how I've never paid any sustained attention to your breasts before this moment. You've changed in front of me so many times, worn bikinis in my presence, and I guess I knew they were pretty nice, but it never occurred to me to really look.

With my hand on your sternum, the black of my fingernails is stark against your skin. I trace a finger across your chest, following the lacy edge of your bra. It's a nice bra, simple. White cotton and lilac lace.

I move lower, following the path my fingers just took with my lips. Your skin is so fucking soft.

Maybe I say that out loud, because I feel your laughter against my lips.

I pull back. "Okay. You can take it off now."

You cock an eyebrow at me. "Take if off yourself."

It's really not that hard, undoing the clasp—even though I can't see what I'm doing—and I feel the give in the elastic as it comes undone.

The frantic want that gripped us just moments ago has eased. We go slowly now, uncovering each other piece by piece, touching, kissing, tasting.

It's exploration now, getting to know each other's bodies as thoroughly as we know every other piece of each other. It's almost awkward, peppered with too many, "Is this okay?" and, "Are you sure?" and "No, like this," but watching your face as I learn what makes you feel good is pretty damn amazing.

Fragments of poetry slip through my mind as I kiss my way around the curve of your breast, as my fingers climb down the ladder of your ribs, as your hair sweeps across my chest, as your fingernails dig into my biceps. I mumble them against your skin until you tug me back up and tell me I'm driving you crazy and that you need more.

There's a moment of panic as I scramble through my drawers and you dig through your bag until we find a condom.

You giggle, wiping a hand across your brow. "I would've made you go buy some," you say.

"I would've made you come."

You laugh harder at that—until I shut you up by making good on my inadvertent innuendo.

We're a sweaty, panting mess by the time we end up back where we started, side by side on my bed. The pillow's gone, though, having tumbled off the bed at some point, and the comforter is barely clinging to mattress—most of it is puddled on the floor.

And once again, it's almost disorienting, if I think about how much has changed in the space of twenty-four hours.

"Do you remember that merry-go-round? Over–" I wave a boneless arm toward the window "–at that playground that used to be behind Mrs. Jackson's place?"

"Uh-huh."

It was one of those self-propelled ones—hanging onto the metal handles with their chipped yellow paint, we'd run and run and run until it built up sufficient speed, and then jump onto the spinning metal disc, laughing as we wobbled and swayed. We always jumped off as it started to slow, and we'd stagger around, grabbing at each other. Feeling the stable, flat earth beneath our feet again was somehow more dizzying that being flung about on the ride.

And this feeling, right now, it feels like that, like I've jumped off mid-spin. As we lie here, catching our breath, it's like I'm waiting for gravity to make sense again.

Like I'm waiting for my head, spinning with everything that's just happened, to catch up with my heart and my body, stable and steady on the solid ground of truth.

…