The drive to Bella's house stretched through the October night like a held breath, each second ticking by with the precision of a metronome counting down to something inevitable. Edward's silver Volvo moved through Forks' empty streets with mechanical precision, but inside the pristine interior, the silence crackled with unspoken words and dangerous possibilities.
His bronze hair—that impossible shade that looked like burnished copper in daylight and liquid gold under streetlights—caught the amber glow of each lamp they passed, casting shadows that danced across his marble features like secrets trying to escape. Those topaz eyes, beautiful and tortured in equal measure, remained fixed on the road with an intensity that suggested he was seeing something far beyond the wet asphalt stretching ahead through the October gloom.
Edward's fingers—long, elegant, designed for piano keys and gentle touches—gripped the steering wheel with barely restrained tension. His knuckles were white against the leather, and Bella could see the careful control in every line of his body, from the rigid set of his shoulders to the way his jaw clenched and unclenched in a rhythm that matched her racing heartbeat.
She sat curled in the passenger seat like a cat seeking warmth, her long legs tucked beneath her, stealing glances at his profile whenever she thought he wouldn't notice. Which was never—he noticed everything about her, from the way her pulse quickened when their hands accidentally brushed during biology class to the little crease that appeared between her chocolate-brown eyebrows when she was thinking too hard about something she probably shouldn't be thinking about at all.
Tonight, that crease was deeper than usual, carved into her forehead like worry made manifest.
The radio played softly—some indie band she'd never heard of, all ethereal vocals and haunting melodies that seemed designed to soundtrack emotional revelations and life-changing confessions. The kind of music that belonged in coffee shops filled with people writing poetry about their feelings, not in cars carrying teenagers home from perfectly ordinary evenings that had somehow become extraordinary.
"You know," Bella said finally, breaking the silence that had stretched between them since they'd left the movie theater, "for someone who's supposedly seventeen forever, you have the musical taste of a thirty-something hipster with commitment issues."
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Edward's mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'll have you know this band is quite popular among people our age."
"Our age," Bella repeated, amusement coloring her voice despite the tension coiled in her chest. "Right. Because you're totally a regular teenager who definitely wasn't alive when this whole 'alternative rock' thing was just getting started."
"I don't know what you're implying," he said, his voice taking on that particular brand of mock innocence that never failed to make her want to simultaneously kiss him and throw something at his perfect face.
"I'm implying that your CD collection probably includes original pressings of albums from bands that broke up before I was born." She tucked a strand of mahogany hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she'd never been able to break. "Which, by the way, is both impressive and deeply concerning from a social development standpoint."
"You say that like it's a bad thing." Edward's voice was softer now, more genuine, though his eyes never left the road. "There's something to be said for appreciating art that has... staying power."
Bella felt heat creep up her neck at the way he said it, like they weren't just talking about music anymore. Like they were dancing around something bigger, more dangerous, something that made her stomach flutter and her hands shake.
"Is that what this is?" she asked quietly, gesturing vaguely between them. "Art with staying power?"
The question hung in the air like a lit match in a powder keg, dangerous and bright and impossible to take back. Edward's hands went perfectly still on the wheel, his breathing—unnecessary though it was—becoming shallow and controlled in a way that reminded her exactly what he was.
Not human. Not safe. Not anything close to what she should want.
And yet.
"Bella..." Her name was barely a whisper, full of longing and self-recrimination and something that sounded remarkably like fear. Not fear of her, but fear of himself, of what he might do, of what he might say if she kept pushing.
She loved the way he said her name. Like a prayer, like a curse, like something sacred and profane all at once. No one had ever made her name sound like that before—like it was the most important word in any language ever invented.
"You're thinking too loud again," he murmured, glancing at her briefly before fixing his gaze back on the road with renewed intensity.
"Sorry." Bella felt heat flood her cheeks, that familiar embarrassment that came from being so transparent around someone who seemed to see everything. "I didn't realize brooding was contagious."
"I don't brood." The protest was automatic, almost petulant, delivered with the kind of offended dignity that suggested she'd just accused him of something far worse than excessive introspection.
Bella couldn't help herself—she laughed, the sound bright and genuine in the enclosed space of the car. "You absolutely brood. It's like... your signature move. Right after the smoldering stare and before the cryptic warnings about staying away from you."
"I do not—"
"'You should stay away from me, Bella,'" she interrupted, dropping her voice into a passable imitation of his velvet tones. "'I'm dangerous. I'm not good for you. You don't know what you're asking.'"
Edward's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the pale perfection of his skin. "Those aren't cryptic warnings. They're statements of fact."
"Which you deliver while looking like a tragic hero from some gothic romance novel, so forgive me if I don't take them as seriously as you'd like." Bella shifted in her seat to face him more fully, studying the sharp beauty of his profile in the dashboard light. "The brooding thing stopped being effective weeks ago, by the way."
"Perhaps I haven't been emphatic enough." His voice had gone lower, more dangerous, with an edge that made her pulse quicken for reasons she probably shouldn't examine too closely.
"Or perhaps," Bella said softly, her courage surprising even herself, "you don't actually want me to stay away."
The words hung between them like a confession, raw and honest and completely terrifying. Edward's hands flexed on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white, and for a moment she wondered if she'd pushed too far, said too much, crossed some invisible line that couldn't be uncrossed.
Then he turned to look at her—really look at her—and the naked vulnerability in his expression made her breath catch in her throat. Beautiful and damned, that's what he was. Like a fallen angel who'd forgotten he'd once had wings.
"Bella..." There it was again, her name like a benediction, like he was trying to pray her into understanding something he couldn't say out loud.
They'd reached her driveway without her noticing, the familiar sight of Charlie's police cruiser parked next to her ancient Chevy truck somehow surreal after the intensity of their conversation. Both vehicles looked ordinary and safe and utterly normal compared to the sleek perfection of Edward's car, like artifacts from a simpler world where teenage girls didn't fall in love with vampires.
He put the Volvo in park but made no move to get out, his gaze now fixed on her front porch light like it held the answers to questions he was afraid to ask. The yellow glow spilled across the wet pavement, warm and inviting, a beacon of normalcy in a night that felt anything but normal.
"Edward?" Bella's voice was gentle, careful. She'd learned to read his moods like weather patterns—the sudden storms, the dangerous calms, the electric tension that preceded lightning. "What is it?"
He was quiet for so long she thought he might not answer, might retreat back into that careful silence he used like armor against the world. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of decades, of choices made and unmade, of regrets that stretched back further than she could imagine.
"Earlier, when you asked about watching me hunt."
Bella's stomach dropped, settling somewhere around her knees with a sick kind of certainty. She remembered the conversation—if it could be called that—from lunch, when she'd made some comment about wanting to understand all aspects of his nature, not just the carefully human facade he wore like a mask. She'd been curious, fascinated by the glimpses she'd caught of what lay beneath his perfect control: the inhuman grace, the predatory stillness, the way his eyes sometimes went black with hunger.
She'd wanted to understand all of him, not just the parts he thought were safe.
"I remember," she said quietly, her voice steadier than she felt.
Edward's laugh was hollow, bitter, the sound of someone who'd found humor in the darkest possible place. "Do you have any idea what you were asking?"
"I was asking to see you," she said simply, meeting his gaze without flinching. "All of you. Not just the parts you think are acceptable for human consumption."
"Acceptable." He repeated the word like it tasted wrong, like she'd just suggested something obscene. "Bella, nothing about me is acceptable. Nothing about what I am, what I do, what I want..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Especially not that."
She watched him struggle with whatever he was trying to tell her, saw the war playing out across his perfect features—beauty and self-loathing locked in eternal combat. His hands were shaking now, actually shaking, and she'd never seen him lose control like this, not even for a second.
"Tell me," she said, reaching out to cover one of his hands with hers.
The contact was electric, sending sparks up her arm and straight to her heart. His skin was cold as marble and twice as hard, but she could feel the tension thrumming through him like a live wire.
Edward closed his eyes, his dark lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. When he opened them again, they burned with an intensity that made her feel pinned in place like a butterfly on display.
"When we hunt," he began, his voice taking on an almost hypnotic quality, "we become what we truly are. Not this." He gestured vaguely at himself, at the careful facade of humanity he maintained. "Not Edward Cullen, seventeen forever, sitting in biology class and pretending to care about cellular mitosis while trying not to think about how good you smell."
Bella's breath caught at the casual admission, but she didn't interrupt.
"We become predators," he continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Pure instinct made flesh. We track scents across miles without conscious thought, move through forests like shadows, completely silent, completely lethal. We kill without hesitation, without mercy, because in those moments mercy doesn't exist. Compassion doesn't exist. Nothing exists except the hunt and the kill and the blood."
Bella's throat had gone dry, but she didn't look away, couldn't look away from the terrible honesty in his eyes.
"The control I've spent decades building," Edward said, his hands flexing beneath hers, "the careful restraint that lets me sit next to you in class, that lets me hold your hand without crushing every delicate bone—it disappears completely. Gone like it never existed at all."
His voice was getting rougher now, more raw, like each word was being torn from somewhere deep inside him.
"I become hunger, Bella. Nothing more, nothing less. An apex predator designed by nature to be the perfect killing machine. And your scent..." He inhaled sharply, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. "God, your scent. Even now, when I'm in complete control, it calls to me. It sings in my veins like the most potent drug ever created."
Bella's heart was pounding so hard she was surprised it didn't bruise her ribs. "Edward—"
"If I were hunting," he interrupted, his golden eyes snapping open to fix on hers with laser intensity, "if I were lost to that instinct, if you were there when the monster took over..." He trailed off, jaw clenching like he was physically holding back words too dangerous to speak.
"You think you'd hurt me," she whispered, understanding flooding through her like ice water.
"I know I would." The certainty in his voice was absolute, devastating, like a judge delivering a death sentence. "Not because I'd want to—Christ, Bella, the thought of causing you even a moment's pain is enough to drive me insane. But because you'd be prey, and I'd be the hunter, and that's all that would matter. Everything else—what you mean to me, how desperately I..." He stopped abruptly, his mouth snapping shut like he'd been about to confess something unforgivable.
"How desperately you what?" Bella pressed, leaning closer despite every instinct screaming at her to give him space.
Edward looked at her for a long moment, his beautiful face a mask of tortured indecision. Then, so quietly she almost missed it, he whispered, "How desperately I love you."
The confession hit her like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs and making her heart stutter to a complete halt. Love. He'd said love, not affection or attraction or any of the safer words people used when they were afraid of the truth.
Love.
"Edward—"
"You should go inside," he said abruptly, his voice rough with something between desire and self-loathing. "You should go inside before I do something that proves every word I just said."
But Bella didn't move, couldn't move, pinned in place by the raw honesty in his voice and the impossible beauty of his tortured expression. She studied his face in the dim light—the sharp perfection of his features, the torment in his topaz eyes, the way his mouth looked both cruel and tender depending on the angle.
"What if I don't want to go inside?" she asked, surprised by her own boldness.
The question seemed to hit him like a physical blow. His breathing, unnecessary though it was, became ragged and uneven. "Bella."
Her name was a warning, a plea, a prayer all rolled into one.
"What if I want to stay here with you?" she continued, her courage building with each word. "What if I want to understand what you're so afraid of? What if I'm not as fragile as you think I am?"
"You can't understand," he said desperately, his perfect composure finally beginning to crack. "You're human, Bella. Fragile and breakable and so fucking precious I can barely stand to be in the same room as you without wanting to wrap you in cotton and hide you from the world. And I'm—"
"You're Edward," she interrupted softly, reaching up to cup his face in her palm. His skin was cold as winter marble, but she didn't pull away. "You're the boy who plays piano like he's pouring his soul through his fingers. You're the one who quotes Debussy and drives too fast and probably has Jane Austen novels hidden in your room that you read when you think no one's looking."
A startled laugh escaped him, short and sharp. "How did you—"
"Because you're you," she said simply. "You're the one who's never hurt me, not once, not even when I've given you every reason to. You're the one who catches me when I fall—literally—and makes sure I eat lunch even when I'm too distracted to remember. You're the one who looks at me like I'm something precious instead of something clumsy and ordinary and completely out of your league."
"Those are the pieces of me that remain," Edward said, his voice barely controlled. "The fragments of humanity I've managed to preserve after eight decades of being a monster. But they're not the whole truth, Bella. They're not what I really am underneath all the careful control."
"Then show me," she said, the words escaping before she could stop them. "Show me the whole truth."
The challenge hung between them like electricity, charging the air until it felt thick enough to cut. Edward's eyes went wide, then dark with something that made her pulse race and her skin flush despite the October chill seeping through the car windows.
"You don't know what you're asking," he whispered, but his voice had changed, gone rougher and more dangerous, like he was speaking from somewhere deeper and more primal than his usual careful control.
"I know exactly what I'm asking," Bella said, leaning closer until she could see the flecks of gold in his darkening eyes. "I'm asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to stop protecting me from yourself and let me make my own choices about what I can handle."
For a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, she thought he might. His gaze dropped to her mouth, his perfect control wavering like a candle in a hurricane. His hand lifted from the steering wheel, reaching toward her face like he couldn't help himself, drawn by some invisible force stronger than his carefully constructed restraint.
Then he jerked back, pressing himself against the driver's door like she'd burned him with her touch.
"No." The word came out sharp, final, carrying the weight of absolute decision. "Go inside, Bella. Now."
The rejection stung like a slap, but she could see the war in his eyes, could see how much it was costing him to push her away. This wasn't about not wanting her—if anything, it was about wanting her too much.
"Okay," she said softly, her hand finding the door handle with fingers that only shook a little. "I'll go."
She stepped out into the cool October night, the damp air immediately raising goosebumps on her bare arms and making her shiver. Her worn Converse sneakers crunched on the gravel driveway, the sound abnormally loud in the sudden quiet left behind by the Volvo's purring engine. She'd made it halfway to her front steps when his voice stopped her cold.
"Bella."
She turned, her heart jumping back into her throat. He was still sitting in the shadow of his car, but his window was down now, and the streetlight caught the bronze highlights in his disheveled hair, making him look like some kind of dark angel.
"Tomorrow," he said, his voice carrying easily through the still air with inhuman clarity, "I want to know what you really want from me. From this... whatever this is between us."
There was something different in his tone now, something that reminded her exactly what he was beneath all the teenage boy facade. Something predatory and ancient and completely inhuman.
Bella's mouth went dry, but she managed to find her voice. "What kind of answer are you looking for?"
His smile was sharp and beautiful and utterly without humanity. "The truth. All of it. No more careful words, no more dancing around what we both know is happening here."
The promise in his voice sent heat spiraling through her veins even as the danger in his eyes made her shiver. This was Edward unleashed, or at least a glimpse of him—the monster he kept so carefully hidden beneath layers of control and good intentions.
"And if the truth scares you?" she asked, surprised by her own audacity.
"Then at least we'll both know where we stand."
She watched the silver Volvo disappear into the night, its taillights swallowed by the darkness like red stars dying. Tomorrow. The word echoed in her mind as she finally climbed the front steps on unsteady legs, her pulse thrumming loud enough to drown out everything else.
Tomorrow was going to change everything.
Again.
---
The cherry-red 1969 Corvette Stingray growled through the back roads leading to the Cullen house like a mechanical beast, its chrome bumpers gleaming under the occasional streetlight and its V8 engine purring with barely restrained power. Katherine gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled determination, her dark hair whipping around her face from the half-open window, looking every inch the dangerous beauty she'd always been.
The October air was sharp and clean, carrying the scent of dying leaves and impending rain, but she barely noticed the autumn perfection surrounding them. Her mind was too busy racing through scenarios, most of which ended in spectacular emotional disaster and the complete destruction of seventy years of carefully maintained family dynamics.
In the passenger seat, Elizabeth sat with the kind of perfect composure that would have made finishing school instructors weep with joy. Her golden hair was pulled back in an elegant twist that somehow looked effortlessly chic despite being anything but, and her pale hands were folded neatly in the lap of her burgundy wool dress—the kind of outfit that belonged at charity galas and museum openings, not in cars driven by women about to potentially blow up their entire existence.
The silence between them stretched like a wire about to snap.
"You're going to burn through the clutch if you keep driving like that," Elizabeth observed mildly, her Scottish accent lending a musical quality to what was clearly a gentle reproof wrapped in silk.
Katherine's jaw tightened, her dark eyes flashing with something between annoyance and panic. "I'm fine."
"Oh, absolutely." Elizabeth's voice was dry enough to start forest fires. "Nothing says 'fine' like white-knuckling a steering wheel and driving like you're being chased by the entire Seattle Police Department. Very convincing, darling."
"Don't." Katherine's voice was sharp, cutting through the engine's rumble like a blade. "Don't use that voice on me. Not tonight."
"What voice?" Elizabeth asked with wide-eyed innocence, though the slight curl of her perfectly glossed lips suggested she knew exactly what voice Katherine meant.
"That patronizing, everything-is-amusing voice you use when you think I'm being overly dramatic." Katherine downshifted aggressively as they approached a curve, the Corvette's engine snarling in response like an angry cat. "I'm not being dramatic. I'm being realistic. This could go very, very wrong, Lizzie."
Elizabeth was quiet for a moment, studying Katherine's profile in the dim light filtering through the windshield. Even in distress, even wound tight with anxiety, Katherine was breathtaking—all sharp edges and dangerous curves, like a blade wrapped in velvet. When Elizabeth finally spoke again, her voice was softer, the teasing edge gone completely.
"It could also go very, very right."
"Could it?" Katherine's laugh was bitter, hollow, the sound of someone who'd stopped believing in happy endings sometime around her second century of existence. "Elizabeth, they saved us from burning at the stake. They turned us when we were dying, gave us eternity when all we had was ash and flame. They've spent seventy years taking care of us, protecting us, treating us like..." She searched for the right words, her accent thickening with emotion. "Like treasured daughters. Not like women who might have thoughts and feelings they haven't approved of."
"You don't know that's how they see us," Elizabeth said quietly, but there was doubt creeping into her voice now, uncertainty threading through her usual confidence.
"Don't I?" Katherine glanced at her briefly before focusing back on the winding road. "When was the last time either of them asked about our love lives?"
Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the leather creaking softly beneath her. "Well..."
"Exactly." Katherine's voice was thick with frustration and something that sounded remarkably like heartbreak. "Because in their minds, we're still those terrified girls they pulled from the pyre. We'll always be those girls—grateful and innocent and completely dependent on their protection."
The memory rose between them like smoke—acrid, choking, inescapable no matter how many decades had passed. The square in their small Highland village, surrounded by faces twisted with righteous hatred and religious fervor. The rough wood of the stakes, still green enough to produce more smoke than flame. The smell of pitch and oil and fear-sweat from the gathered crowd.
Elizabeth's power flaring wild and uncontrolled, wind howling through the square like a living thing seeking vengeance. Katherine's gift responding in kind, herbs and flowers blooming impossibly out of season, defying the very nature of October itself, roses bursting from cobblestones in a display of magic that sealed their fate.
*Witches,* the crowd had screamed, their voices rising to a fever pitch of hatred. *Devil's whores. Unnatural creatures. Burn them all.*
They'd died holding hands, Katherine's blood soaking into the earth as Elizabeth's life ebbed away beside her, their powers spent in one final, futile attempt to save themselves. And they'd awakened the same way three days later—fingers intertwined, cool hands smoothing hair from their faces while unfamiliar voices rumbled reassurances in languages they didn't yet understand.
Their makers. Their saviors. Their family.
And now, potentially, the objects of their most impossible desires.
"They're not our parents," Elizabeth said quietly, as if reading Katherine's thoughts. "They never were, not really. They were our creators, yes. Our mentors. Our family. But never our parents."
"Try telling them that," Katherine said, her voice rough with suppressed emotion. "Try telling Hadrian that the girl he saved from burning might actually want to crawl into his bed and never leave. Try explaining to Daenerys that the daughter she's protected for seven decades is desperately, pathetically in love with her and has been since approximately 1987."
The confession hung in the air like a lit fuse, raw and painful and impossible to take back. Elizabeth reached over and placed her cool hand on Katherine's knee, the touch gentle but grounding, an anchor in the storm of Katherine's panic.
"Katherine," she said softly, using her full name instead of the nickname she'd preferred for decades, "we don't know how they'll react. But we know how we feel. And after seventy years of hiding it, of pretending we're content to be their grateful children forever, don't we owe it to ourselves to find out?"
Katherine was quiet for a long moment, her dark eyes fixed on the road ahead as they wound through the familiar forest paths. The Cullen house was visible now through the trees, all glass and steel and warm light spilling from massive windows. Modern and sleek and somehow comforting in its strangeness, a home that had sheltered them through decades of change and growth and careful self-denial.
"I'm scared," Katherine admitted finally, the words barely audible over the engine's steady purr.
"So am I," Elizabeth said, squeezing her knee gently. "But I'm more scared of spending another seventy years wondering 'what if.' I'm more scared of dying—truly dying—without ever knowing if they could love us the way we love them."
Katherine pulled the Corvette into the long driveway, gravel crunching under the tires with familiar comfort. Through the house's floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see the family moving about their evening routines with inhuman grace. Carlisle in his study, probably reading medical journals and making notes in his precise handwriting. Esme in what she laughingly called the kitchen, creating beautiful things she'd never need but found joy in making nonetheless.
Alice and Jasper were curled together on one of the white leather couches, lost in their own private world of shared emotion and glimpsed futures. Even from outside, Katherine could see the contentment radiating from them, the perfect synchronicity of a mated pair who'd found their other half.
What she wouldn't give for that kind of certainty.
And there, visible through the tall windows of the music room, Hadrian's familiar silhouette. He was at the grand piano as always, his dark head bent over the keys in concentration, long fingers dancing across ivory in a melody she couldn't hear but somehow felt in her bones. Even from this distance, even after all these years of living in the same house and sharing the same impossible existence, the sight of him made her chest tight with longing.
He was beautiful in the way that Renaissance masters had tried to capture in marble—all sharp angles and classical proportions, like Michelangelo's David if David had been designed by someone with a taste for dangerous elegance. Dark hair that always looked like he'd been running his fingers through it, pale skin that seemed to glow in lamplight, and those eyes...
God, those eyes. Silver-blue like winter storms, ancient and knowing and capable of looking straight through to her soul.
"There's Daenerys," Elizabeth whispered, her voice going soft with wonder and want, and Katherine followed her gaze to the living room's second level.
A slim figure stood at the railing overlooking the main floor, silver hair catching the light like spun moonbeams, her beauty so otherworldly it made Katherine's heart ache just to look at her. Even at this distance, even through glass and the gathering dusk, Daenerys Targaryen was magnificent—ethereal in a way that suggested she'd been carved from starlight and dragon dreams rather than born of mortal flesh.
Untouchable. Unreachable.
And completely, utterly beyond their ability to resist.
"God, look at them," Katherine breathed, her voice thick with longing and self-doubt in equal measure. "How are we supposed to tell them we're in love with them? They're like... like works of art given life. Perfection made flesh. And we're just..."
"We're theirs," Elizabeth finished softly, her Scottish brogue making the words sound like a vow. "We've always been theirs, Katherine. In every way that matters. The question isn't whether we belong to them—we settled that seventy years ago when they gave us eternity. The question is whether they want us to belong to them the way we want to belong to them."
Katherine turned off the engine, and sudden silence filled the car like a held breath. No more rumbling motor to hide behind, no more forward momentum to distract from what they were about to do. Just two women, centuries old but feeling as uncertain as teenagers about to confess their first crushes, about to risk everything they'd built for the chance at something more.
"Together?" Elizabeth asked, her accent making the word sound like a prayer for courage.
Katherine looked at her—really looked at her. Golden hair gleaming in the porch light, green eyes bright with determination and terror in equal measure, that perfect mouth curved in a small, encouraging smile. Beautiful, brilliant Elizabeth, who had held her hand while they burned and never let go since, who had stood by her through seventy years of immortal existence and never once suggested that Katherine's feelings were anything less than valid.
Her other half. Her partner in crime. Her sister in all the ways that mattered.
"Together," Katherine agreed, and meant it in every sense of the word.
They walked toward the house hand in hand, their footsteps silent on the stone pathway despite the gravel that should have crunched beneath their feet. Inside, warm light spilled through tall windows, and the family that had given them everything waited unknowing, beautiful and eternal and completely oblivious to the storm about to break over their perfect existence.
Tonight, Katherine and Elizabeth Peverell were going to ask for the one thing they'd never dared request before.
Tonight, they were going to ask for love in return.
And tomorrow, one way or another, everything would be different.
---
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