That night as I climbed into bed, all wet and clean and thoroughly blue in the balls, Bella stood in the doorway, staring at me. Her hair hadn't been brushed yet, and it was all wet, tangled tresses, cascading down her shoulders in thick locks.

“What?” I asked as I pulled the blankets back and patted her spot at my side. She had this odd look on her face—lips pursed as she regarded me. She was so clean and wet and… fuck—her nipples were erect, poking out from under the thin shirt she wore. But then again, showers had a way of making my mind completely fucking one-tracked.

Erect was the word of the night.

Was it weird that seeing her in my shirt and boxers was just as sexy as seeing her standing in the shower completely fucking nude and lathered?

“Nothing,” she shrugged but began this kind of… sultry-sway-thing as she strutted to the bed. I raised an eyebrow and…

Did I just get harder? Fuck.

“What color shirt was Lauren wearing today?” she suddenly asked as she approached, climbing onto the bed in… an unusual place.

At my feet.

My breath hitched as she crawled over me, and I flattened my back against the bed, watching all of her wet hair brush over my legs and thighs as she crawled up my body.

Fucking straddling me. Again.

The collar of her shirt dipped, and I caught an eyeful of her tits.

Definitely, definitely erect.

“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered uncertainly as she stilled, straddling my hips. I suppressed a groan and darted my eyes to the open doorway. “Esme,” I warned in a whisper, even as my hands went to her hips. She was wearing my boxers, and my waist was bigger than hers. The boxers sagged off her hips and exposed the top of her pretty little panties. I pressed her closer and kind of smiled and grimaced at the same time because there were no thick blankets between us, and fuck... I could feel her.

I closed my eyes and pressed my head into my pillow, bucking my erection into the weight of her body. It wasn’t exactly involuntary. After all, a big part of our therapy was learning to take advantage of indulgences without guilt.

Yes, that was meant to be directed toward living in Carlisle’s and Esme’s home and accepting their love.

Yes, I was twisting its meaning to justify rubbing my dick against Bella.

No, I didn’t give a flying fuck.

“Hmm,” she hummed, bracing her palms on either side of my head. She leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Esme never comes up here, and you know it. And Lauren was wearing that red scoop neck with her boobs just pointing right at you.”

Then she rocked her hips, and I made this really disgusting sound that was somewhere between a choke and a “fuck.” Her breath was hot against me, tickling my earlobe as her breathing deepened audibly.

My eyes lurched to the open door once more, and I… indulged myself by thrusting against her. My stomach tightened, and I answered distractedly, “I didn’t notice. You were wearing that brown sweater... low and... so fucking tight...” my voice trailed off into this anguished sigh, and my hands moved to her ass. I ducked my fingertips below the boxers she wore and caressed the skin there. I met her gaze for a split second, too paranoid about the open door to hold it. In my glance, her eyes were closed and her cheeks were flushed as her lips parted.

“Kiss me,” she breathed.

I captured her lips and immediately—her tongue was pressing against me. I opened my mouth and met her tongue, groaning softly as I rubbed my dick against her, pressing my fingertips into her ass and massaging her soft flesh. It seemed like we never kissed like this—horny and uncaring. My eyes were still open, trained on the doorway, and the kiss was lusty and paranoid and full of her small panting and her hips grinding against my cock and… goddamn, why couldn’t we have done this shit in the shower?

When she pulled away, she rested her forehead on mine and breathed raggedly against my face. She licked her flushed lips and whispered in explanation, “Whenever I get jealous or whatever, I picture you in bed waiting for me and pulling back the covers like you just did.” She brought her lips to my neck, kissing me blow my ear.

I was panting and writhing and watching the door and harder than…

I was too fucking incoherent to even muster up an apt analogy.

And I was motherfucking great at analogies. That’s how hard I was.

But then she swallowed, and it was loud and nervous, and her breath stuttered into my ear. Her next words emerged in a shaky whisper, "It makes me... wet."

My body stiffened, and my breath caught in my throat. I mouthed "Holy mother of shit" jerking my head to the side to meet her gaze.

Her eyes were sheepish, and she bit her lip, trapping the fleshy skin between her teeth.

I tried to find my voice. It was lost somewhere in Bella-says-new-naughty-things-ville. "Christ, Bella, you can't... you can't just... say that kind of shit to me," I insisted, her words echoing in my mind on repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

"Because you don't like it?" she asked in this small voice, thighs tightening around me.

Shaking my head, I breathed this groan-slash-chuckle and answered, "No, because when you do, it makes me want to investigate, and we both know I can't." I punctuated this truth with a slide of my fingers, dangerously close to where she likely wanted them, and a glance at the doorway. I pressed against her and pushed her into my cock, writhing a little because I was an insecure, horny bastard who was learning to indulge.

I heard more than saw her smile when she replied, "You can always investigate what's yours, you know. I wouldn't be opposed." And then she slid against me, working her hips back and running herself along my dick, all wedged between us.

"Esme," I choked again but put my hands on her hips to let her know just how much I liked that whole sliding business. In fact, this “sliding business” was officially my new thing. It had been too long. One-half of a hand job in six months was not enough to contain the teenage hormonal motherfucker within.

Of course, now I realized that the teenage hormonal motherfucker didn't exist.

He was just an excuse to want something I didn't believe I deserved to have.

Fucking hell, why am I thinking of this shit now?

With a sigh, she repeated, "I already told you. Nobody comes up here. Have they ever?" she asked and then pressed her tits against my chest, grinding harder against me. Her weight on top of me was minimal but so fucking heavy at the same time. It constricted my chest and made it feel as though breathing was impossible. It bubbled within me and expanded me, and it was just too goddamn vague to ever mentally describe.

Strained and rigid, I reminded, "But... Esme and... Carmen, and... It’s not where... when, you... fuck, Bella, why couldn't we have done this shit in the shower?" I asked, echoing my earlier thoughts because new thoughts were obviously pretty fucking impossible to coherently verbalize.

"Stop," she whispered, finally stilling against me and remaining silent until I met her gaze.

When I did, her eyebrows were all furled and creased and a little huff escaped her parted lips. "I didn't do this in the shower because I wanted to do this," she explained, sliding against me once more.

My jaw locked and I bit back a groan, watching her hooded eyes.

Breathily, she continued, "And things tend to get... slippery in the shower. Accidents can happen and when we do have sex, it won't be an accident, right?" she asked, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

I nodded and swallowed, still glancing back and forth between her and the door.

Now I was curious about this sex business. I was wondering if we could set a date or some shit but figured that asking something like that would be a little fucking deplorable. I then wondered when I'd become so fucking greedy.

With a sigh that crushed her tits harder against me, she begged "Please" and rocked into me again, her eyes sliding closed as her lashes fluttered and her lips parted. In an uneven, almost inaudible whisper, she breathed, "It's been so long, Edward..."

And then I realized that Bella had probably gone longer without getting off than me. I remembered how she'd told me on that day we'd made up how I was flawed—in that I denied others what they wanted for my own belief that I was too undeserving to reap the consequential benefits.

Well, I figured I could make progress one orgasm at a time.

"Like this...?" I asked, still staring at the doorway and sliding her up my length, lifting myself into her with a sharp intake of air.

And then she moaned. It wasn't really a loud moan, just one of those humming-type moans. It reverberated, from her throat to her chest to our connected groins, and it made me fucking shudder.

"God, yes," she answered, repeating the motion. She lifted herself onto her palms once again and peered down at me as she rocked and sighed. Her wet hair shielded our faces and made it difficult to watch the doorway. Of course, after about five or six more of those delicious fucking hip slides, it was a little like... "What door?"

She lifted herself and lingered above me, minimizing the contact of herself against my cock to a mere grazing. "This..." she sighed, just rolling her hips and brushing her clit against me. Her eyes were dark as she moved, whispering, "... feels so good to me..." And so I mostly remained still, just letting her do what felt good as my eyes guarded the door. The movement of her hips was so unbelievably wanton—the little sweeps against me and her panting as she sped her movements, making them erratic in the sexiest way. It felt so fucking... private, as if I was somehow spying on this little moment of complete non-restraint. She didn't hide anything. Not her hip rolls or the way she moved to the side the get the contact of the head of my dick. She let me see her focused expression, hear her mewling and ridiculously sexy and uneven breaths.

She was... using me to get off?

The notion made me fucking insane. My head was clouded with her hot breaths and grazes over my dick as I coached in a whisper, "That's right. Just feel good..." And then I thought, "Fuck the door," and focused on her face, all flushed and creased in concentration. I moved my eyes down—to the junction where we met and watched her moving against me. And then I swallowed. And then I began panting with her, craving more friction and restraining myself until she got hers.

She moved frantically, fixing her eyes to mine but clearly focused as her face grew bright with a thin sheen of bubbling sweat. "Touch..." she panted, arching her back into my chest. Without hesitation, my hands removed themselves from her thighs and ducked under her thin shirt, seeking the soft flesh of her tits and fondling them quite eagerly.

More moans.

I kneaded and caressed as she moved urgently against me, spurring me on as my hands grew more insistent, pinching her nipples and palming them excitedly.

I couldn't remember ever having this type of experience without feeling some kind of shame or guilt. I had often wondered what all the fucking hype was about. Getting off was fun and all, but what about after? What about when I lay in bed at night and realized that I'd experienced pleasure and had used someone to get it. It was wrong, and yet now—it was right.

Because Bella wasn't using me to get pleasure. She was giving me the gift of watching her experience pleasure—showing me some side of herself that was probably reserved for embarrassing late-night exploration or some shit. It was so real, watching her come completely undone in that way. It was almost like she didn't care if she looked ridiculous. She could get past that and let me enjoy it with her. It was really kind of epic, watching her writhe and squirm and brush. One of her hip bones popped, and it was loud, and neither of us really gave two shits about it.

Then she looked down at me with this crazy serious expression, and it was almost comical as she breathed, "I'm really close," like I might do something to inadvertently make her lose the orgasm.

I kept telling myself not to laugh. Her voice had been so fucking admonishing. She just held my gaze with that same “Don't fuck this up” look and went impossibly faster. I still had her tits in my hand, only remembering sporadically to grope and massage them. And then her thighs tightened around my hips and her brows pulled together, lips sucked into her mouth as she began to quiver. When she released her lips, they parted and she moaned, "Oh, God..."

I knew when it was happening because she finally—finally—pressed herself completely onto my dick and writhed atop it with her eyes clenched tightly closed. Her teeth pressed together, she whimpered and rocked hard against me, shuddering as the heels of her feet dug into my thighs.

Releasing hard, sharp breaths, I pressed back into her and finally allowed myself to do what felt good to me. She collapsed atop me, panting as I lifted my hips and slid my dick against her, eyes ever-vigilant and fixed on the door. I grabbed her little hips and moved her in opposition to my thrusts, meeting her exhausted gaze with what was probably a really desperate and impatient expression.

I mean, I was dry humping her for fuck's sake.

What the fuck was I? Twelve and fingering-deficient?

But it did the job, and I was already close when she began kissing my neck and half-purred, half-huffed in my ear, "I just came so hard on your dick..."

And then a little piece of me fucking died and went to Sliding-Business-Heaven.

And then I grabbed her hips and grunted and shoved my cock against her—and then I came.

In my pants.

Shuddering, I twitched between us and clutched her tightly, groaning into her wet hair covering my face. I threw my head back into the pillow and hissed as I pulsed and writhed against her, riding it out gloriously.

When I was finally reduced to a heavy-breathing, incoherent-mumbling mess, I held her tightly and forgot all about the door and the fact that I'd need to clean up again.

I didn't feel any guilt that night—only Bella's little, contented breaths against me.

---

“I’m like… this close to vomiting,” Alice said as she stood in the doorway and gnawed on a stick of celery. She held up two fingers to indicate exactly how close she was, but all I could focus on was that stick of leafy shit.

Who the fuck eats celery? Just… all by itself?

“Lovely,” I murmured into Bella’s hair. “Could you do that somewhere else, though?” I asked absently, rubbing little circles around Bella’s hip bone.

My girl had just gotten home from her Thursday session, and I’d pulled her down with me onto the sofa. We never just chilled around the house like this. Usually, Esme would freak me out or I’d just feel generally uncomfortable. Today was different, however. Today, my girl was in one of those despondent moods and I didn’t give a shit.

Bella sighed on top of me, her back pressed into my chest as we lay on the sofa, against the armrest. She was cradled between my legs, twirling her ring around my finger.  “Don’t you have something to do, Alice?” she asked flippantly, resting her head on my shoulder.

Alice shrugged and chewed. “Jazzy’s out with his mom.”

I chuckled, bouncing Bella a bit as I breathed mockingly, “Jazzy…” into her hair. 

Bella barely cracked a smile. 

Alice seemed to actually use her powers of observation and finally left us alone. 

After she was gone, I sighed and sank deeper into the sofa cushions, crushing Bella against me tightly.

“How was your session?” I asked cautiously, because it had obviously affected her. After school, she’d been fine.

She shrugged and tucked her hair behind her ear—a blatant non-answer. 

That shit wouldn't suffice.

Sighing, I pressed my lips to her neck and pleaded into her skin, “Please don’t let shit fester.” I didn’t want to be pushy, but to see her mope around the house like this without knowing why was going to seriously turn me into a broody bastard.

She turned slightly and closed her eyes, pressing her face into my neck. “We can talk about it on Monday,” she promised in a small voice and tucked her hands below her chin.

Well, that was pretty fucking insulting.

“So… what?” I asked, leaning up slightly until she met my gaze. “We can’t have a conversation unless Carmen is there to mediate?” I felt my forehead pucker and my arms loosened as I regarded her Oh-I-kind-of-fucked-up-a-little-didn't-I? face. Yes, you certainly did. Stiffly I decided, “That’s really shitty.”

“I didn’t mean it like that…” she insisted with a frown.

Inclining us to a full sitting position, I turned away and chuckled, raking my hands through my hair in frustration. “I know you didn’t, but I think this relationship is getting a little fucking crowded, don’t you? You know, there was a time when you could just talk to me without going through a process.”Sure, I'd used the "Lets wait to talk to Carmen" bullshit myself on one occasion, but that had been different—a shorter wait—and I hadn't done it since.

It was all shit that she had already been expecting me to say. I could see it in the slump of her shoulders as she looked down at her hands, playing with her little fingers guiltily.

Now, I was cool with Carmen, and I was good with the sessions we had, but what use were they if we couldn’t ever begin applying them to real life? I could tell Bella was already expecting me to say this as well, because she simply looked up at me, defeated, and rolled her eyes.

“It’s college,” she grumbled, but immediately looked away and sank into the sofa.

“Oh” was my incredibly fucking lacking response.  I had been expecting something… well, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting but "college" was far from it.

Then, the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was probably a bit obvious. Jasper and Alice had been looking into colleges since I returned home—probably long before then. They jabbered about it at lunch. Alice made charts weighing the pros and cons of various locales. Jasper would stare at her tits and nod along rather happily. Bella and I would ignore them and be busy discussing something really fucking un-high-school-like, like cognitive behavioral therapy or why I left my towels on the bathroom floor or how nice her tits looked all lathered up and in my hands when we took a shower...

Okay—so that was a little high-school-like.

“You haven’t even thought about it,” she whispered knowingly.

I met her gaze. 

She didn’t even look disappointed or anything. In fact, she looked kind of relieved.

“Not really,” I confessed.

She sighed and tucked her feet beneath her, fingering the ends of her hair. “Well, I don’t know if there’s really a point anyway.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

Now that it had been brought up, I realized that it was fairly important. I couldn’t figure out why it had slipped my mind. Back in Chicago, I’d only been focused on the there-and-then, and here, I was only focused on the here-and-now. I'd never even payed Carlisle much attention when he brought it up on rare occasions. It had never occurred to me that I would ever have a future to consider, but now that I did, I was actually getting a little… excited?

Fuck Alice. I could make charts that would put her little black and white bar graphs to shame. I mean… come on. It’s an entire professional career being planned for. I’d think I could, at the very least, spring for some really fucking extravagant colored pencils or some shit. Better yet, I was confident we could go all kinds of Kinkos on that motherfucker.

Bella’s face fell, and she looked away, huffing. “Let’s be real, Edward. I can’t—" She shook her head, and her voice cracked. 

I saw where this was going and I didn’t like it. One bit. “I can’t” was not something to be said—ever. 

I reached for her again, but she shook me off and continued in a frustrated voice, “My recovery is too slow. I only just got comfortable here, and… to move away to some crowded dorm… I just… can’t.” With a swallow, she finished, “There’s always correspondence courses or something to take online. It’ll do.”

No way in fuck was my girl going anywhere that she described using the words “It’ll do.”

Completely ignoring the community college horseshit, I reasoned with a shrug, “So we’ll get off-campus housing.” 

She met my gaze and quirked her cheek, all fucking dismissive. “Come on! We can live together. It could be a fuck-load of fun,” I emphasized this with a furtive glance around the room to be certain we were alone, and then a very suggestive kiss below her ear. I leaned in and pressed my lips to her skin, ducking out my tongue and tasting her with a hum. “Doors won’t matter,” I whispered huskily.

She didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm as I leaned back. In fact, her face grew darker, and her jaw tightened. She began in a thick voice, “I’ll have to memorize the least crowded route to every class. I’ll have to find a seat farthest away from people and expect special attention from the professors. Even off campus… it’s just one more house with countless closets to remind me how far away I am from being…”

Normal.

I supposed she had come a long way, deciding not to use that very subjective term. Not that it mattered. I wanted to tell her to stop being such a fucking baby, but… she’d been patient with me when I was nothing but a petulant asshole and I couldn’t.

Then, she turned away and murmured, almost inaudibly, “I’m still twenty-six inches away from yours,” and shoved a lock of hair behind her ear.

“What?”

“Twenty-six inches,” she repeated with a scowl. “It’s how close I can get to your closet before I completely freak out.” And then she hugged her knees, which was clearly her closing herself off.

“Fuck, Bella,” I groaned, tugging at my hair. I was having difficulty remaining patient, so I took a deep breath. “This is all a bunch of bullshit. You’ve been doing better,” I reminded softly. “Remember Tyler?” —and how I wanted to stab him in the nut sack?

Frustrated, she slapped the loose tendrils of hair from her face and glared straight ahead. “Fuck Tyler.”

It was then that I realized that it was one of those days. One of those shitty, annoying, Fudge You All days. Possibly some P.M.S. type shit, I mutely noted, having learned by now after living with so many women that it was to be thought, but never, ever said aloud.

I decided that I was sick and fucking tired of those kinds of days. I knew they’d come and go, and my girl would probably fail more than she’d succeed, and I’d have to sit by and watch that shit like it wasn’t killing me.

But not tonight.

She was welching. That's right. Fucking welching. Here I was busting my ass to go to therapy to learn more about helping her, and she was backing down. It was so un-fucking-fair. I refused to allow what was some kind of blatant regression or some shit. She'd come too far. I'd come too far.

We'd earned our stupid fucking color-coded college charts.

I stood up, extended my hand and ordered, “Come on.” She pretty much just kept glowering at the wall, so I grabbed her hand myself and lifted her off the sofa.

She questioned me with a haughty glare as I dragged her up the stairs, irritated and grumpy, and killing my chart-buzz.

Don’t point out the Midol in the medicine cabinet, I chanted with every step.

Then when we stood in the room, thirty inches from my closet, recognition dawned on her face and her eyes widened. My closet wasn’t much. I knew she’d gone to therapy with the initial intentions of both pissing me off and snooping in my shit. That little space was inaccessible to her, and I figured it drove her crazy. After all this time dwelling, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had formed over-the-top impressions of it. Her skewed version probably included something like porn and photos of girls from school—and God only knows what else. In reality, my closet was pretty fucking boring.

It also terrified her. She avoided that whole section of the room and always had. I kept my laundry hamper outside of it—like she'd had it set up before I'd come home—and she kept her clothes in the guest bedroom or shoved into her half of my dresser. Honestly, I couldn’t personally understand it. Some really asinine and simplistic part of myself wondered what was so damn difficult about going to a door, opening it, and going inside. But that was ignorant and I knew better.

Even though entering that closet seemed easy to me, her fear of it was as real to me as the closet itself.

Rationally, I knew that I couldn’t ever understand that portion of her mind. That was just as fucking frustrating to me as her limitations were to her. My frustration was mostly due to my ignorance though—my inability to comprehend it or take it all on myself.

She turned to me then and met my gaze. Her expression made me seriously reconsider this whole thing.

Her eyes were actually teary. “I already told you I can’t,” she insisted in this small, shaky voice that tugged at my chest. She looked so fucking apologetic, like she was letting me down by reminding me that this little task was beyond her abilities.

So I grabbed her shoulders and spun her around, pressing her back against my chest as I shushed her and pleaded, “You can do it with me here.”

We both knew what I was asking. She probably needed to do it on her own, but this wasn’t about some bullshit dependency that Carmen liked to harp about. It wasn’t even a gift from me to her. If she allowed me, then I’d be at her side every single day to get her into a closet. When she needed her shoes or needed to put her clothes in the laundry hamper or just wanted to get out her winter jacket, I’d be there. It was a promise.

There’s a big difference between dependency and commitment.

I watched her face as she stared ahead at the door, contemplating my offer. It was obvious that, with all of her recently large accomplishments, her smaller failures made more of an impact on her confidence. She’d already been told the clichéd “Rome wasn’t built in a day” bullshit. She knew she needed patience, and technically, she had been more patient than most would be in her position. Carmen could tell her what Carmen believed her biggest hurdles to be, but my girl knew what accomplishments meant most to her, and this closet was obviously high on that list. The slow curling of her lips into a watery smile told me that she was alright with attempting to cross that off, once and for all.

“Okay,” she finally whispered with a small, nervous nod. Her little grin and subtle bounce betrayed her anticipation.

I wanted to chuckle, but I didn’t, because I realized that it was still very possible that she would be incapable of making it, and I’d have to watch that disappointment and anguish when she didn’t.

With a steeling breath, I replaced my hands to her shoulders and instructed her to close her eyes. 

I began kneading her muscles, utilizing the knowledge I'd gained from Carmen on helping her. She sighed, and her shoulders began to gradually relax, her hands going limp at her sides. 

I shoved my fingers beneath her shirt collar for skin-to-skin contact and buried my nose in her hair, because Carmen might know all of that technical bullshit, but I knew the subtle methods that worked best. When she began swaying with my kneads, I knew she was as relaxed as she could possibly get without collapsing, so I nudged her forward.

Her eyes opened, and she took the steps to the presumable twenty-six-inch mark. She wasn’t “freaking out,” but I knew that my presence was responsible. I continued massaging and kept my toes at her heels, forcing her to take steps with me. Her back would tense with every small step, and I’d have to work that much harder to relax her again.

When we finally made it to the door, her breathing began to change. It was a discreet deviation in rhythm. I trained my eyes on the pulse point on her neck which accelerated minutely. I frowned as my fingers molded against the skin of her back. We hadn’t even opened the door yet, and already, this was the point in which I’d stop.

It took longer to relax her, and I wasn’t even able to do that entirely. Her back moved against me, rising and falling in shorter, sharper breaths as we stared at the white, painted wood. Her palms rubbed against her denim-clad thighs, and her eyes grew wider with every second. She was dwelling.

When I reached for the knob, she began shaking, her breath escaping in small, erratic gasps.

“I can’t,” she rasped, pressing back against me and turning her face to meet my gaze. 

What I saw there fucking tore at me.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, and silent tears trailed down her cheeks. It wasn’t even about disappointment or failure anymore. This was pure, unadulterated fear. Getting away from that closet was—at that moment—the most important thing in her world. Her eyes said, “Fuck college, fuck Carmen, fuck ‘normal.’ Get me the hell out of here.” Her feet shuffled back, but were blocked by mine.

I couldn’t decide which would be better: easing her in the short-term, or pushing her now and gaining more for the long-term?

Admittedly, my girl had me wrapped around her little finger. I was a total fucking pushover. I would give her anything to make her happy, but that was a given. Could I make her suffer now, if it meant making her happy later?

I decided that I hated it—fucking loathed it, really—but I could. 

She did it for me and it was worth it. I just needed to get her to see that frame of reference again.  Her fear was clouding it. Thus, I held her gaze with a firm stare and decided, “In the words of a very pretty girl, ‘stop being chicken-shit.’”

She whimpered and snapped her gaze ahead, realizing just how meaningful my words were. She nodded but also began breathing more heavily, her intermittent shaking transforming into violent, alarming tremors.  She seemed to have her mind made up that she was doing it, and this seemed to amplify her anxiety ten-fold.

“Shhh,” I whispered in her ear and ran my hands along her arms, but they were covered. So I grabbed the hem of her sweater and brought it over her head, only just barely managing to slip it off without losing contact.

Her plain white t-shirt beneath was thin, and my palms rubbed soothingly on her now-bare arms, up her neck, and across her stomach. And then I took her hand in mine and put them on the knob. I almost expected her to yank it back, but she didn’t. She gripped that motherfucker so tightly that it rattled with her vibrating arm.

Her breathing was starting to worry me, but I still turned the knob, slowly guiding her hand to fully twist it. I refused to let her down by conceding. 

She’d thank me for it later—I really fucking hoped.

Together, we pulled it open in one swift motion, and then, I was staring at my rack of hanging clothing and darkness. Our hands were still fixed on the knob and Bella wheezed. It was this weird, high pitched sound that reminded me of a dying animal.

The rattling of the brass knob grew louder, and her inhales were so short that it seemed as though she couldn’t get any air at all.

My heart began racing.

Panicked and scared a little shitless that she’d just black out, I hastily shoved my hand up the front of her shirt and flattened my palm to her chest. I crushed her tightly against me and instructed urgently into her ear, “Visualize, like Carmen said. Fuck, Bella. Feel my breathing and match it, okay?” She nodded fervently and closed her eyes but continued wheezing.

I decided to give her one minute before I drew back and slammed the door closed. It was worth a lot, but it wasn’t worth her immediate health. I swept her hair back from her face—pale and taut—and whispered stupid, ridiculous things in her ear. With my every word, her breathing gradually deepened, so I kept going. I said stupid shit like, “The king of hearts is the only king without a mustache in a standard deck of playing cards,” and “Evian spelled backwards is ‘naïve,’” and “The Nobel Peace prize is totally gay because it’s three naked motherfuckers just standing there, touching each other,” and “The word ‘testify’ was created by men in the Roman court who would swear on their testicles,” and “A barnacle has the biggest dick of any other animal in the world in relation to its size, and iguanas, koalas and Komodo dragons all have two.”

At this, she cracked one eye, meeting my gaze and furrowing her brow. “Two dicks?” she asked, her breathing now nowhere near normal, but at a far less terrifying tempo.

I nodded and smirked tightly, continuing, “A whale's penis is called a dork.”

She nodded, raising her eyebrows. “You sure do know a lot about dicks and testicles and gay men and mustaches and… designer drinking water.” She punctuated this with what I assumed was meant to be a mocking glance—though a weak one.

I explained, “I chose what I thought might be points of interest to you. I know you sure are interested when you’re washing mine,” and then I winked.

With a small grin, her almost-blush brought back some color to her cheeks, and I felt myself breathe a sigh of relief. Turning back the closet, she tensed again, but didn’t start wheezing, so I simply removed my hand from her shirt and continued massaging her stiff shoulders.

“Edward,” she said nervously, her body slowly relaxing under my fingers. 

I hummed in response and heard her loud swallow. 

“I’m standing in front of the closet. And… it’s open…” she trailed off, and I couldn’t discern whether or not she was scared or proud.

One look at her face revealed a pretty fucking even mixture of both.

Feeling as though she could go farther—accomplish more—I kneaded her muscles until she was as relaxed as I thought was possible under the circumstances. Her lip was between her teeth and her hands were still rubbing against her thighs anxiously, but I could see her eyes. They were wandering over the space with a hint of curiosity, landing upon the box that lay on the floor and the mini-shelf that was crammed in the back.

She was so fucking nosy and adorable.

Then, out of the blue, she inhaled deeply and nodded, turning to me with determined eyes. She decided, “We’re going in there.” And I didn’t need to suggest it because she pointed at the black space like she could totally own that bitch.

So I turned her away from the closet and snaked my arms around her waist. I figured it'd be better for her not to see it, coming at her and dark and obscure and scary. Her confusion was short-lived as I backed us into the darkness slowly. She clenched her eyes shut, and some of her shuddering returned, but she continued to match my breathing, pressed against me tightly. I supposed she was visualizing as we finally halted, smack in the middle of my closet.

Standing there seemed kind of stupid, so I decided... if she could sit down, it'd make it that much more enormous.

It's easier to make a quick getaway when you're standing, I mused. I'd learned that her mind knew this, instinctively. It was also why she preferred to sleep farthest away from the door, and facing it at nights. She probably never even realized it until I'd pointed it out one afternoon. She was in a constant defensive state, without even knowing it.

With a shaky breath, I slowly lowered her to the floor and into my lap, spreading my legs out before me and easing her between them. Carefully, she sat and began rocking a little, hunched forward and squeezing her eyes shut. Worried that she was headed downhill, I put my arms around her and encouraged in a chant, “You’re doing so fucking good, Bella. So good.” Then I kissed her cheek and neck, and I swayed with her, pressing my cheek to her shoulder as I watched her face carefully. Our heads brushed the bottom of my clothing that hung above us.

It seemed like forever as we both sat there, rocking slowly back and forth as I murmured affirmations and told her how proud I was of her. She didn’t seem to be listening, but I kept going and hoped that she’d understand how pretty fucking monumental this was. She was sitting here, in the closet, no tears or panic attacks. It didn't matter that I was here to ease it. It didn't matter that she'd been working through these fears now for months. It didn't even matter that she was taking meds to help her along.

What mattered was that she was doing it.

Maybe it wasn’t a Fudge You All kind of night after all. Maybe she’d go for Monumental Macaroons for the third time this month.

“What are you visualizing?” I eventually asked after a good twenty minutes, just out of genuine curiosity. Her face looked so fucking… focused. I wanted to know where she was so that maybe I could be there too. My voice echoed oddly in the small space and made my whisper seem louder than it really was.

Her brows were furrowed in concentration, and when she answered, she did so absently. “That... meadow place by the river.”

A slow smile spread across my face, and I suggested, “We should go out there some time.”

A slow smile spread across my face, and I suggested, “We should go out there some time.”

Her rocking slowed a bit, and she nodded, finally opening her eyes and darting them around the space anxiously. “Before it get’s cold,” she murmured in distracted agreement. She wrung her hands in her lap, searching for sleeves that weren't present, and pivoted her head, assessing the boxes and shelves and shoes around us.

“What’s that?” she immediately asked, gesturing to a small, cardboard box of some old sketchbooks. They were mostly full of my failed attempts at drawing subjects other than my parents or Bella herself.

"Old drawings. Pretty boring still-life type shit," I answered.

She stilled her rocking entirely and craned her neck, her hair falling over her shoulders as she leaned toward them tentatively. “Can I see?” she whispered, a trace of thrill in her voice as she reached for them.

I snickered and stopped her hand with mine, raising a brow. “Can we talk about college some more?” I bartered cunningly, and more than a little impressed that her urgings to snoop in my shit trumped her anxiety of the moment.

Her hand lingered in the air and she pursed her lips, scanning the space once more before nodding in concession. With a smirk, I allowed her to pull out the five books. I figured she’d want to leave the closet as soon as she got her hands on something interesting, so I prepared to stand.

I was a little fucking shocked when she pressed into my chest and opened the first one, reclining against me, not comfortably, but not nearly as tense as she should have been. It was pretty fucking miraculous.

This wasn't even a Monumental Macaroons kind of night. Something like this got its own cookie, I was positive. And after she made them, I'd tell her to bake me up a batch of Tarty Charted Motherfuckers, because if she could conquer a closet, then she could do anything.

With a shrug, I rested my elbow on one knee and began, “So if you could go to college anywhere, where would you want to go?”

She was flipping through the pages of half-completed drawings, tracing the lines and tilting her head. “Wherever you are, of course,” was her answer.

I scoffed at this, but persisted, “As if that’s even a question. Seriously. I’ll go wherever you are. I—” This is where I paused and frowned. “My G.P.A. is really fucking horrendous,” I mumbled remorsefully.

She simply nodded. “It really is.”

Rolling my eyes, I craftily figured, “But if you want Ivy League or something, I can find something close by to accept me.”

Bella snorted and finally tore her eyes away from a really shitty drawing of the Stevens’ chow to meet my gaze. “You act like my G.P.A. isn’t only just barely better than yours.” Sighing, she returned her eyes to the book and declared, “I’d like to stay close to Esme and Carlisle and… Carmen.”

I silently agreed with this but preferred not to say so. Instead, I asked, “Washington?”

She nodded and peeked up at me through her lashes. “University of Washington has a really excellent business program,” she whispered before diverting her eyes to the book once again.

“Business?” I murmured, furrowing my brows. “I really hope you aren’t referring to me, because I could never own a business, Bella.” Fucking Christ, I’d have to go by that old, bullshit adage, “The customer is always right.” Fuck all that shit. The “customer” is usually a complete dick and deserves to be told so. Which I’d do. Frequently.

She breathed a silent chuckle and shook her head. “Not for you. For me,” she clarified in a small voice, avoiding my quizzical gaze.

“You want to go into business?” I asked in disbelief. It wasn’t that I doubted she could do it. I’d just always assumed she’d major in literature or something.

“Well,” she began, pivoting to me and now resting against my upturned leg. She flitted her eyes around nervously before meeting my gaze and explaining, “Seattle has this art institute that’s renowned for its culinary program.” She looked away and bit her lip, shrugging as she dropped her head. “It’s probably kind of stupid, but…” she trailed off, as if embarrassed.

I hedged, “But you can apply business to cooking and… what? Open a restaurant?”

She glanced at me and replied, “I haven’t gotten that far, but there are all kinds of things I could do with it. Delis and bakeries and gourmet shops…” She had this little flash of excitement in her eyes upon mentioning the variety of possibilities.

I was in awe that she could even feel something like that, given the fact she was sitting in the middle of a dark closet.

At my gaping, her face fell. “It’s stupid isn’t it?” she asked flatly.

Recovering, I rushed to insist, “No! No, I don’t think it’s stupid. I think it’s perfect.” I punctuated this with one of those crooked smiles that I knew made her red and flustered.

“Really?” she asked, and I nodded, pleased with her sigh of relief as she began flipping through the pages once again. “What about you? Art?” she asked curiously, holding up the book.

I scoffed and shook my head. “No fucking way. That’s a hobby, not a profession.” Drawing was something I used to get away from bullshit. Lawyers hated law, accountants hated money, and whores hated sex. No point in ruining a perfectly enjoyable thing. Plus, art wasn’t something I felt I could ever be proud of. Nothing I drew was ever good enough. It didn’t change lives or make a difference.

“But you’re really good,” she insisted with a frown, shoving a page with a sketch of Jasper’s old acoustic at my face.

Eager to get the attention off myself, I noted aloud, “You’re doing really good, you know? Being in here. You don’t give yourself enough credit."

At this, her back suddenly tensed, as if she were just now realizing where she was. I brought my hand to her neck and tried to work out her blatant tension. Her wide eyes slowly relaxed as she slowly, but gradually eased back into my touch.

She sighed and returned her eyes to the book. “It’s all you, Edward,” she replied, but she didn’t do so glumly. A grin graced her lips as she peered up at me. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice full of gratitude and unfathomable sincerity. It gripped something in me, the same way it always did whenever she made me feel needed or valuable or like I could actually do something and not fuck it up for a change.

With a shaky inhale, she added, “And you’re better at this than you give yourself credit for.” I figured she was going to start harping on the drawings again, but instead, she waved her hand between us and gestured to the closet and returned her eyes to the book.

I probably had a good amount of defining moments in my life. My first one was unbearable to remember—a recollection of a crumbling reality and the charred remains of what could have been a perfect life with two parents who loved me. The second was finding another parent who could love me, just as unconditionally. The third was falling in love with my girl. The fourth was letting my mother go so I could return to my girl. And the fifth was occurring right this second, sitting on the floor of my closet with someone who—by all reason and logic—shouldn’t have been able to even open the door. She’d crossed it off her list, and we’d had an entire conversation, just sitting here, planning our futures. She was going to go into business, and then become the world’s best cook or chef or baker or whatever the hell she wanted to be.

And in that second, as I gazed back at what was—by far—my greatest accomplishment, I knew what I wanted to do with my future. Those words from my final night in shitty old Chicago had never been clearer.

I couldn’t help my mother, but I could help someone else.

I could learn everything about my girl’s condition in the process. I could come as close to understanding her as possible. I could work my ass off for it and when the time came, maybe I could give back some of the hope that had been given to me, to the fucked-up people of the world who had none. I could do it, and I could be happy.

I could be Dr. Edward Cullen, Mindfucker, PhD.