1,708AN: This is the last one, and then, it's over. I am really sad, but happy that I was able to finish this story in under two years. SoCal took 7. Yeah, I know. Anyway, thanks so much for hanging out with me.
Thanks to Brina and May for pre-reading. Let's do it again.
SM Owns Twilight.
Epilogue
-Part Two-
Okay, so, let me tell you.
We went to the doctor. Like, the doctor doctor. OBGYN. Ultrasound wand. Clipboard. The whole nine. And yeah, she confirmed it. Four weeks and three days. Conception date? April 28th. And I didn't need her to tell me that.
Please. I knew.
I've known since the minute my body started feeling… different. Since my boobs got weird and everything smelled like hot garbage and my skin suddenly couldn't decide between glowing and breaking out like I'm seventeen again.
But really? I knew because I remember exactly how it happened.
Every second.
The twins were off at Disney with Charlie and Renee, some last-minute grandparent bonding extravaganza, complete with churros, matching T-shirts, and yes, Jackson and Sophie in tow because my parents are the best darn grandparents on the planet. They had the whole crew. And suddenly, we were alone.
Like—alone alone.
No wake-up sippy cups. No cereal negotiations. No "Mommy, he looked at me funny."
Just quiet. And heat. And him.
And listen. It wasn't romantic. It was raw.
There were no candles. No playlist. I was still in an old tank top and cutoffs, hair in a claw clip. It didn't matter.
He came up behind me in the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter, the other sliding under my shirt like he couldn't wait. Like he'd been starving and I was the first meal he actually wanted to taste.
It was slow for maybe ten seconds.
Then he kissed me, and that was it. Game over.
By the pool later, I was still dripping wet from swimming and he just grabbed me. Pulled me into his lap like it wasn't even a question. Like we were twenty again and the rest of the world didn't exist. His mouth was on my collarbone, my thighs were around his waist, and I remember thinking: This. This right here. This is the best kind of trouble.
We didn't even make it to the bedroom that time.
And after that? Forget it. We didn't leave the house. Barely made it to meals.
Couch. Shower. Floor. Stairwell. Wall.
Every surface in that place has seen some things.
It wasn't sweet or careful or slow. It was us.
Fast. Filthy. Addicted. Like five years of chaos hadn't dulled any of it.
And now?
Now there's a baby.
And we're not telling anyone yet. Not until I hit twelve weeks. That's Edward's rule. He's weirdly superstitious for someone whose actual job is dodging linebackers for fun. But I get it. I really do. It makes it feel special. Just ours for a little while.
And the timing?
Kind of perfect. We'd already planned to go to Forks for the Fourth of July. A family trip, kids running wild, fireworks that go way too late. And if the math's right, I'll hit twelve weeks exactly around then. Of course this baby would show up in the middle of all that. Loud, sparkly, late-night chaos. Like a tiny firecracker in disguise.
Edward's deep in preseason now, but Coach Holmes is the complete opposite of Biers. He's not a tyrant with a whistle and a complex. He's warm. Easygoing. Actually talks to the players like they're human. He brings donuts to morning meetings and high-fives the twins like he's known them forever.
When Edward told him, he didn't even blink. Just smiled and said, "Go make a memory."
Gave him a week off. No drama, no guilt trip, no passive-aggressive comments about commitment or conditioning. Just… go.
And I don't know… it's little things like that. The softness. The yes without conditions. It still catches me off guard. But I'll take it. Every time.
So we did.
Packed up the twins, loaded our carry-ons with snacks and bribery, and flew to Forks.
Fourth of July's a whole thing up there. Parades down Main Street, everyone decked out in red, white, and blue like it's a uniform. Apple pie contests judged by retired lunch ladies who will absolutely throw hands over crust texture. Fireworks so loud you feel them in your teeth. Pure chaos. Pure nostalgia. Pure Forks.
Alice and Jasper flew in too, which, if you ask me, was wildly irresponsible considering her due date was basically last Tuesday.
She just shrugged and went, "And? I'll just have Cricket here."
Alice acted like we were talking about ordering takeout, not, you know, birthing a human.
I told her she was unhinged.
She smirked and said, "Takes one to know one."
Honestly? I think she already knows I'm pregnant.
She's been side-eyeing me since the twins' birthday party, asking if I'm tired, nauseous, "glowing weird."
Which… fair.
She's Alice. She always knows.
And somehow, being pregnant has made her even worse. Like, clairvoyant-on-steroids worse. She's all gut feelings and weird dreams and "just a sense."
Full-on voodoo.
And I love her for it.
Even if it's creepy as hell.
Laurent, Irina, and their kids are driving up from Seattle to spend the holiday with us. Full caravan mode—snacks packed, playlist queued, Irina probably threatening to "turn this car around" every fifteen minutes while the kids stage mutiny in the backseat.
It means a lot, them coming.
Laurent's been retired almost a year now. Not exactly voluntarily. He got benched hard after a brutal injury, and the writing was on the wall—big, ugly, and unavoidable. Irina saw it first. She's always been good at that. Talked him into stepping away before the league could grind down what was left of him.
He still misses it sometimes. Told Edward once during a late-night call after a game, "It hasn't been the same since you left, man."
And yeah… he meant it.
Seattle's never really bounced back. Rankings dropped. Playoffs became a pipe dream. The spark? Gone. Press conferences got sad—just a lot of recycled soundbites and empty promises.
And then Garrett left.
That one hit like a gut punch. If there was any chance of salvaging something, it walked out the door with him.
Laurent said the locker room just… died. Quiet. Flat. No heat. So he walked too.
Now? He's home. Full-time dad mode. Cooks, does school drop-offs, grumbles through yoga because Irina made him sign up for a class. He whines about it constantly. He also loves it. You can see it all over his face.
Meanwhile, the team he left behind? Still flailing.
The GM? Probably landed on his feet. They always do. Some other team, some other mess to mismanage.
Coach Biers, though?
Blacklisted. Out. Word is he's coaching little league now. Which… poetic. He used to run the most controlling system in the NFL and now he's explaining offsides to six-year-olds in mesh shorts.
And all of it, every shakeup, every firing, every empty locker, started the day Edward said, "No, thanks," and walked away from the machine.
He didn't just leave. He detonated it.
The WAG policy? Gone. The culture? Gutted and rebranded. The Seahawks tried to pretend it hadn't all gone rotten, but the truth was simple: the magic left with him.
Because Edward Cullen didn't stay behind. He took every ounce of spark with him.
And Tampa lit up.
The team he built down there? Stupid good. The chemistry on the field was freaky. It looked like poetry. Defense locked in. Offense electric. And Edward's spirals? Hit like heat-seeking missiles.
Three-year contract. Two Super Bowl wins. One heartbreak season that came so close it still makes me twitch.
They couldn't let him go. Offered him a new deal—three more years, plus an optional fourth just in case they needed time to throw more perks at him.
Not that he needs perks.
They treat him like a damn king down here. And us? We're golden. Like stupidly, disgustingly happy.
The babies were born here. They think all Christmases are warm and all birthdays involve bounce houses and sunscreen. Carlisle and Esme are moving to Tampa next month to be closer. We've got palm trees, fresh seafood, and a life that doesn't feel borrowed anymore.
This is home.
And yeah, sometimes I think about what it took to get here. What we walked away from. But mostly? I just watch him with the kids in the pool, sunburned and smug, and think… we did it.
We really did it.
Everyone's staying at Cullen Manor this week. The massive house Edward built just outside of Forks, hidden up in the trees like a billionaire's idea of a cabin. It's all glass walls, vaulted ceilings, and stone fireplaces, with the kind of view that makes you stop mid-sentence just to stare. He designed it before we were even together—back when I was still a question mark, and he was already sketching out forever.
He never talked about it much. Said it was a backup plan. Just in case. But standing in it now, watching our whole family fill every inch, it's obvious this wasn't just some plan B. This was hope. Quiet and stubborn and carved into wood beams and custom tile. Every room feels like something he was saving for later—just in case later ever showed up.
And now? Later's here, and it's loud.
The kind of loud that echoes off hardwood and high ceilings. Little feet thundering down the halls, cousins shrieking from the game room, someone always elbow-deep in the pantry looking for snacks. Rose and Emmett took the left wing with their kids, which basically means: good luck sleeping past 6 a.m. Jackson and Sophia are in full summer break mode, chasing the twins up and down the stairs, calling dibs on bunk beds, hiding granola bars in weird places like tiny doomsday preppers.
There are kids everywhere. Splashing in the pool, racing scooters down the gravel driveway, building pillow forts with all the throw blankets Esme folded just hours before. Someone's always crying. Someone's always laughing. It's messy, it's magical, and it's exactly what it should be.
At night, after the tiny hurricanes pass out, the adults take over the hot tub. Wine gets poured. Stories get told, some sweet, some scandalous, some whispered just quiet enough not to wake anyone. It's warm and a little wild and so full of life I swear the walls pulse with it.
There's space for all of us here. Like Edward knew we'd need it long before we did. And watching him move through it—watching him take it all in with that quiet, satisfied look he gets when something turns out exactly how he imagined. I know this place isn't just a house.
It's him. All of it. Every light switch, every hallway, every wide open room full of noise and love and second chances.
Edward and I even snuck off to visit our rock.
You know the one. Halfway up the ridge behind Cullen Manor, hidden in the trees like some moss-covered secret. It's nothing dramatic. Just a flat, wide stone tucked off the trail, but it's been ours since forever. The kind of place you find once and never forget how to get back to.
We went early. Real early. Before the sun had a chance to turn the woods into a steam room. The air was cool and wet, that signature Forks kind of damp that clings to your skin and makes your hair weirdly soft. Our shoes sank a little into the soft ground, pine needles sticking to everything, birds halfheartedly starting their morning gossip.
The rock looked exactly the same.
Worn, solid, like it had been waiting for us.
Edward didn't say much. He never does when it really counts. He just pulled me close from behind, chest pressed to my back, breath warm on my neck. His forehead found mine like muscle memory, and for a second, I forgot the world had ever been anything but this.
"This place saved my life," he whispered.
And yeah. I felt that all the way to my toes.
On the way down we detoured. Of course we did. We stopped at this giant old cedar just off the trail. The kind that's seen things. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his knife like it had been burning a hole in his jeans all morning.
I leaned into him, chin tilted, teasing. "You planning to vandalize nature, Mr. Cullen?"
He smirked, kissed my temple, and muttered, "It's not vandalism if it's true love."
The blade caught the bark with a satisfying scrape, each stroke sharp and deliberate.
E B = 4EVA.
Crooked as hell. Rough around the edges. Absolutely perfect.
I traced it with my finger when he was done, smiling like a sap. The bark was warm under the morning sun, and the letters stood out like a secret carved just for us.
If this is a dream, don't wake me up.
The next morning, I'm back in my childhood kitchen, peeling apples while trying not to hurl.
It's cook-off day. A Forks Fourth of July tradition that somehow still exists, complete with homemade judges' scorecards and an actual trophy that Renee polishes like it's Olympic gold. She's already elbows-deep in dough, flour streaking her cheekbone, her hair clipped up like she's about to host a cooking segment on local access TV.
Charlie and Carlisle spearheaded the new grandpa-led tradition at dawn. In full tactical mode, cooler packed, coffee thermoses in hand, acting like they were deploying a military unit instead of taking their sons and grandsons fishing.
They wrangled Edward, Emmett, Jasper, Laurent, Mason, and Jackson into trucks like it was an annual rite of passage.
In Forks, "boys' fishing trip" is mostly just code for drinking beer on a boat while pretending to supervise children armed with sharp hooks.
Meanwhile, the girls are doing the real work — cooking, keeping track of the children who didn't get shipped off, and bedazzling shirts with Irina like we're entering some Pinterest-themed cult.
"You sure you're feeling okay, baby?" Renee asks, narrowing her eyes at me over the top of her rolling pin.
I nod. Lie. "I'm good. Just tired."
Which is true. I am tired. But also: food has not been my friend lately. Morning sickness hasn't hit me like last time, but eating? That's another story. Everything smells too strong or not strong enough, and half the time I just want a cold spoon and a dark room.
Renee doesn't buy it. She squints at me, then glances at my untouched plate.
"You haven't even tried the filling," she says. "You love the filling."
"I'm pacing myself," I tell her, dragging my fork across the crust like that counts as participation.
Across the table, Alice is silently watching me, one hand resting on her belly, the other holding a bejeweled "Team Cricket" tank top she's ironing rhinestones onto with terrifying precision. She says nothing. Just smirks.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I wipe my hands on a dish towel and check it.
Edward:
We caught nothing. Jackson fell in. Emmett brought jerky. It's chaos.
Me:
Sounds peaceful. Want to trade lives?
Edward:
Only if I get to be barefoot in your mom's kitchen watching you slice apples in that little tank top.
Me:
You're not even here. How do you know I'm wearing a tank top?
Edward:
Because I know you, Bruiser. And I'm picturing it. Don't ruin this for me.
I roll my eyes and bite down a smile.
Edward:
Also, Mason caught seaweed and named it Jeff. He's devastated we let Jeff go. Send help.
Me:
Tell him Jeff is free now. Living his best life. Maybe starting a podcast.
Edward:
That actually worked. You're magic.
Another buzz:
Edward:
How's your stomach?
I glance at my barely touched plate, then at Renee, still watching me like a hawk.
Me:
Weird. But manageable. Just miss you.
A pause, then:
Edward:
Miss you too. So much it's stupid.
Edward:
Save me a bite of whatever wins.
My phone buzzes again.
I smile without thinking, expecting it to be Edward, probably another fishing update or something ridiculous about Emmett trying to wrestle a catfish.
But it's not him.
It's TMZ. A push alert.
One of those stories that knows exactly how to bait you:
GIGI BUNDCHEN STUNS AT PARIS EVENT WITH NEW HUSBAND — THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM?
I click it before I can stop myself.
There she is.
Still gorgeous. Still glowing. Designer dress, perfect teeth, glass of champagne in hand. Husband number two — or is it three now? Whatever. He looks like a hedge fund. She looks like the girl you're not supposed to compare yourself to, and do anyway.
My mom and Alice are talking to me, or at least near me, but I don't register any of it. I just hum vaguely, eyes glued to the screen.
The article's fluff. Mostly speculation, mostly praise. But I can't help reading all of it, just to see if there's any dig. There's not.
It's weird, seeing her pop up again. Not with venom, just distance.
She's not a villain. Not anymore.
After Edward's press conference, after he pulled me on stage and made the whole damn world stop, she sent flowers. Even a handwritten note.
Apologized for the club. Said it was catty. Said there was no excuse.
I believed her and even forgave her.
But Edward didn't.
He tossed the flowers in the trash without reading the card. Didn't even flinch.
"She knew what she was doing," he said flatly. "She always does."
And honestly, he might've been right.
I glance at the photo again, then lock my phone and set it screen-down on the table.
"Bella?" Renee says, finally catching on. "You listening?"
I blink. "Huh? Sorry. Zoned out."
Alice raises an eyebrow, amused. "Sure you did."
But it doesn't matter.
We were never competing.
Not really.
I had him long before she ever knew his name.
We're back at Cullen Manor now.
The boys came home all proud, arms full of trout like they conquered the lake instead of just annoyed it for a few hours. They'll grill it later for dinner—everyone but me. I'll be over here nibbling on crackers and pretending lemon water counts as a meal because apparently this baby hates anything that once swam.
Once it gets dark, we'll all head out back for fireworks. The yard's got the best view in town, and Edward's already got the chairs lined up like it's the Super Bowl. Because of course he does.
Right now though, I'm upstairs. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, one hand on my stomach, trying not to spiral. I'm nauseous in that annoying not-quite-throwing-up way, and the anxiety's creeping in just enough to make me question everything I've ever eaten, said, or worn this week.
Edward's in the shower, scrubbing off a full day of lake grime, fish guts, and general boy-ness.
Then the bathroom door creaks open with a puff of steam, and there he is.
Towel low. Hair dripping. Skin flushed from the heat. He's dragging a towel through his hair, droplets still clinging to his collarbone and sliding down his chest in slow, obnoxiously perfect little rivulets.
And yeah. God help me. I want him.
Even queasy and bloated and vaguely terrified, I want him.
Which is either very sweet or very stupid, and I'm too distracted by the muscles in his back to care which.
He looks at me and that stupid smile curves across his mouth. "How do you look so goddamn beautiful all the time?"
I blink at him, dry as hell. "I'm literally trying not to puke."
He shrugs, stepping closer. "Still hot."
"You've got issues."
"Yeah," he says, crossing the room, "and you married them."
He tosses the towel over the chair, then drops onto the bed beside me with a soft oof, his skin still warm and damp from the shower. His arm brushes mine. He smells like citrus and bad decisions.
"So…" he murmurs, hand drifting to my thigh. "What's the plan?"
I try to focus. Really, I do.
"I think… I think we tell the twins first. Then everyone else at dinner."
"Good plan." His fingers squeeze gently, thumb brushing up my leg. "Maybe we do it now?"
I nod once, then catch the look in his eye.
That look.
I narrow mine. "Now, like… tell them now? Or now like, 'you smell like heaven, let's get naked on the quilt' now?"
He smirks. "Why not both?"
"Because I'll throw up on you."
"I'll take the risk."
His mouth finds my shoulder, hot, damp, and I suck in a breath.
"I missed you today," he murmurs, voice low and rough. "You and that little tank top in your mom's kitchen, slicing apples and making me insane."
I laugh, breathless. "You weren't even there."
"I didn't have to be." His hand slides up, glides beneath the hem of my shorts. "I know how you move."
I hum. "What are you doing?"
"Multi-tasking," he mutters against my skin. "Planning our reveal and trying to get lucky."
I laugh, turning to face him. "You're unbelievable."
"You're irresistible," he counters, mouth catching mine before I can argue.
The kiss is lazy and lingering, his hand curling around my waist. I melt into it for half a second — then pull back with a sly grin.
"You just showered," I say. "Now you're gonna get all sweaty again."
"Worth it."
"I'm nauseous."
Another kiss. Another slow drag of his mouth. "Tell me you don't want this."
I do. God, I do.
But I shove him gently. "You need to calm down. You're like… dripping and feral."
"Dripping and feral," he repeats, biting my collarbone lightly. "New team motto."
I snort, pushing him harder. "Go put on some pants before I lose my mind."
He groans, flopping back on the bed dramatically. "You always shut me down when I'm most vulnerable."
"You're horny."
"You make me horny."
"Not my fault you're obsessed with me."
"Entirely your fault."
I laugh, watching him sulk, arms flung over his face like I just canceled football forever.
I lean over and drop a kiss to his cheek. "You'll live."
"I might not."
"You will."
I kiss him again, a little deeper this time, but when I start to pull away, smug, he growls under his breath and bites my shoulder.
I yelp, laughing. "Edward!"
"You deserved that," he mutters, deadpan.
"For what?!"
"For being mean to me when I'm hot, clean, and emotionally available."
"Oh my God."
And then I do the stupid thing.
I crawl over him.
His arms drop instantly. His hands land on my hips. "Bruiser."
"I changed my mind."
He doesn't wait. Just surges up and kisses me, hard and full, like I just flipped a switch he's been dying to hit. His hands grip tighter. My thighs bracket his hips. There's no space between us.
I gasp as I feel him, all of him, pressing up, thick and hot and impossible to ignore.
"Oh, hell yes," he mutters, trailing his mouth down my neck, one hand already pushing beneath my shorts.
I arch into him, dizzy with it, already soaked, already there.
"Tell me no now," he mutters, mouth trailing down my throat. "Or I'm gone."
"I don't want to say no," I whisper, heart pounding.
"Then don't."
I grind down against him, slow and sure, shorts slipping with every rock of my hips. His towel's gone, somewhere between the last kiss and my brain short-circuiting. He's hard beneath me, thick and hot, pressed right where I need him most.
He curses under his breath, hands gripping my hips, guiding me like he can't take it. Almost if I don't let him in, he's going to lose it.
I lean forward, kissing him deep, messy, his breath hitching against my mouth as his fingers slide under the waistband of my shorts. Just enough to make me gasp.
One more second and he'll push them aside. One more shift and we'll be gone.
His teeth graze my throat. He growls, low and desperate. And then my stomach turns.
Fast. Sharp. Like a warning bell.
Not catastrophic, but enough to slam the brakes.
I stiffen.
Edward senses it instantly. His breath ragged. "What? What is it?"
I shake my head. "Nothing."
He pulls back, eyes searching mine. "Honey…"
"It's fine," I lie, chasing his mouth again.
He's not buying it. His thumb brushes over my cheekbone like he can will me better. "You're nauseous."
"Not bad," I say, trying to ignore it, rocking my hips once, desperate for one more second of friction.
But it persists past the point of annoyance.
I press a hand to my stomach, wincing. "Ugh, hold on. I think I might…"
His face shifts from wrecked to concerned in half a heartbeat. "Shit. Okay. Come here."
He shifts up on his forearms, ready to help, but I'm already moving, rolling off him and onto my left side. I curl into myself, knees tucked, hand pressed to my belly, eyes shut tight.
Edward follows immediately, repositioning behind me, spooning close. One arm slides beneath my head, the other wraps around my waist, hand resting gently on my hip. His chin settles on my shoulder, breath warm against my neck. He brushes my hair back softly, fingers careful.
I groan, flopping more fully onto my side. "You've gotta be kidding me."
He huffs a dry laugh, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I was two seconds from losing my mind."
"You and me both."
"I think I blacked out."
"You were about to black out inside me."
He groans louder, then playfully thrusts his hips against me, still hard. "Don't say stuff like that when we're benched."
"Sorry. I'm pregnant and evil."
He leans over, kisses my cheek, my jaw, my shoulder — like he's mad about it but not at me. "You're pregnant and hot. And currently ruining my life."
I laugh weakly. "Sorry."
"Your timing is actual torture."
"You said sickness is sexy, remember?"
He glares at me, but his mouth twitches. "Liar."
"I wanted to. I still want to."
He laughs, breathless. "Honey, I know. Trust me."
"I'm sorry."
He cups my face, presses a kiss to my forehead. "Stop apologizing for growing our child."
"I'm not even sure if it's an embryo or gremlin at this point."
He smiles, brushing a thumb under my eye. "Gremlin, probably. Just like the last ones."
We lay there for a beat, me catching my breath, him slowly winding down from whatever hot-slick frenzy I threw us into. His hand stays firm on my hip. His chin stays right on my shoulder.
Then, softly, he says, "So… should we tell the kids?"
I nod, still curled in his arms, heart racing, stomach finally settling. "Yeah," I say. "Before one of them walks in and learns way too much about how babies are made."
He kisses my lips. soft, quick, like he's holding back, and then murmurs against my mouth, "One of these days, I'm actually gonna let you finish what you start."
I smirk. "Promise?"
Once we both calm down and Edward's dressed in nothing but gym shorts and that stupid backwards hat, I curse my stomach and try to focus. How does he look so damn hot just standing there? It's a miracle we don't have ten kids already. I jump him every chance I get.
Focus, Belly. Jesus. Anyway.
We wrangle the twins and somehow herd them into their room like a couple of underqualified zookeepers.
It takes strategy. Bribery. Negotiations that would make the UN proud. Mostly bribery.
"We have classified information," Edward tells them in a stage whisper. "Only for the two coolest kids in the world."
Mason nearly crashes into the bookshelf in his hurry. Maisie walks, calm and composed, like a CEO entering a boardroom.
Mason's already bouncing on his heels. "Are we going to Disney again? Did Daddy buy a boat? Is there a dragon?"
Edward snorts. "No dragons, bud."
Mason gasps, full body. "IS IT A JET?!"
"No," I say.
"A lizard?"
"No."
"A lizard with a jet?!"
"Mase," Maisie mutters, climbing onto her bed like a dignitary. "Sit down and use your ears."
Mason does not sit. He ricochets off the mattress, does a half somersault, and lands on the floor in a heap of limbs and giggles.
Maisie smooths her dress, crosses her legs, and looks me straight in the eye. "What is it, Mommy?"
"So," I say, sinking down onto the rug beside Edward—shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee—his hand warm and steady on my back, "me and Daddy have something very important to tell you."
Their eyes go wide, perfectly in sync.
Edward leans in a little. "And we wanted you two to be the first to know."
Mason gasps. "We are going to Disney!"
Maisie eyes him, unimpressed. "Let Mommy finish."
I try not to laugh. "Not Disney, babe. But it's still pretty exciting."
Mason's firing off guesses with zero filter, just whatever pops into his head. "We're getting a trampoline! A puppy! A pet alligator!"
Edward squeezes my hand, leans in. "Just do it," he mutters. "If you don't, we'll be here all night."
So I blurt it out. "There's a baby in my belly!"
Then, softer—because now they're both frozen like squirrels mid-traffic—I add, "You're going to be big siblings."
There's a beat.
Mason explodes. "NO. WAY. A BABY? IN THERE?!"
Maisie's mouth drops open. "Right now?"
Edward nods, grinning. "Right now."
Mason leaps to his feet. "Can it be a boy? No — wait. A T-REX BOY!"
Maisie's eyes are huge. She steps off the bed and walks slowly toward me, like I'm made of glass.
"Right now?" she asks again. "It's really in there?"
Edward nods, softer now. "Really in there."
Maisie reaches out a small hand and presses it gently against my stomach, then pulls it back like it might bite. "Can it hear me?"
"Pretty soon, yeah."
Maisie blinks up at me. "Is it going to cry a lot?"
I nod. "Probably."
She frowns. "Will you still read to us?"
Edward blinks, caught. "Of course I will, honey."
Maisie looks down. "But you read to me every night. And if the baby cries, then you'll go to it… and not me."
I pull her into my lap fast, heart twisting. "Maze, listen to me — no baby in the world could ever take your place. You're my first little girl. That'll never change."
Edward leans in beside us, hand resting gently on her knee. "Hey. You're still my best girl. Even when we have ten babies."
She looks horrified. "We're having ten?!"
"No," I say, glaring at Edward.
He shrugs. "Just trying to prove a point."
Mason pops up from behind the rocking chair. "CAN I NAME IT?!"
"No," both Edward and I say at once.
He groans. "What if it's a boy and I name it Ninjago?"
Edward coughs into his fist. "We'll consider it."
Maisie thinks for a second, then slowly slides her hand back onto my belly. "Okay. I'll help take care of it. But I still get to pick the bedtime books."
"Deal."
Mason's already moving, leaping onto the bed, then back off again like gravity is optional. "I'M GONNA TEACH IT JUMP KICKS AND HOW TO SPIT!"
"Great," I mutter. "Exactly what every baby needs."
Maisie's fingers are still pressed lightly against my belly. "I hope it's a girl. I'll let her wear my butterfly dress."
Edward tugs her close, kisses the top of her head. "You're gonna be the best big sister."
She hums. "I know."
Then Mason climbs back up into Edward's lap and whispers, "Do babies poop in the womb?"
Edward blinks. "Uh..."
"Mason," I say, half laughing, half horrified.
"What? I'm just saying, if it's swimming in there…"
Maisie groans. "You're disgusting."
Edward's already laughing, pulling both kids into his arms. "You guys are gonna be the best big brother and sister ever."
Dinner's winding down. Plates picked clean, wine half-drunk, everyone sunk into their chairs, now completely full, loud, sun-kissed, and borderline comatose. The air smells like grilled corn and Esme's lemon cake. Laughter keeps bubbling up from all corners of the table, punctuated by the occasional, "Don't encourage him, Emmett!" and "Carlisle, that's not how poker works."
From the side room, we hear the kids shrieking, giggling, the unmistakable sound of Mason knocking something over. Again.
Edward leans in, warm and smug, lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Should I do it now?"
I nod, heart kicking up.
He grabs his glass and stands, the chair scraping slightly as he rises. He lifts it, clinks a fork against the rim — ding, ding, ding — and the room quiets almost instantly.
He's still got that damn backwards hat on.
"Sorry to interrupt," he says, grinning down at the table like he's about to deliver a locker room speech. "I know everyone's busy arguing over who brought the best pie…"
"It was me," Renee says, hand on her heart like she's been personally challenged.
Charlie rolls his eyes. "You say that every year."
"Because it's true," she replies, deadly calm. "Mine is made from scratch. With real butter. Like a patriot."
Edward laughs. "No arguments here. Yours is always the first one gone."
That earns a smug smile from Renee.
He glances at me, then back to the table — and his whole posture shifts. Less quarterback, more dad. A little softer. A little cracked open.
"We wanted to tell you all something. Something we've been keeping to ourselves for a little while."
Esme gasps immediately.
Edward holds up a hand, laughing. "Let me finish, Ma."
He looks at me again, and I nod.
"We're having another baby," he says, voice steady and stupidly sweet. "Bella's pregnant."
"BOOM!" Mason yells from the side room, immediately followed by a crash that definitely sounds like someone falling off a chair.
"I TOLD YOU!" he shouts at full volume. "I've known for hours! And I didn't even tell Jackson!"
Maisie's voice cuts in, much calmer. "We were sworn to secrecy. Like spies. Mommy said wait until dinner."
"AND WE WAITED!" Mason adds, bursting into the room like he's reporting for duty. "It was SO HARD."
The table erupts.
Esme's crying before she even gets to her feet, wraps Edward in a hug like he's just given her her fifth grandchild. Oh wait, he has.
Renee wipes under her eyes with a napkin. "I knew it. I knew something was up. You've been glowing."
"Or sweating," I mutter.
"Glowing," she insists.
Charlie grunts, reaching for the potato salad. "Better build a third bedroom."
Emmett lets out a whoop that shakes the table. "YES. Another Swan-Cullen baby. We are unstoppable!"
Alice slaps the table. "I flipping knew it! She turned green during the shrimp dip and blamed 'sun fatigue.' That's not a thing!"
Jasper leans back, sipping his drink like he's known the whole time. "She did say she wasn't craving hot wings. That was a red flag."
Rose smiles slowly, hand over her heart. "Maisie's going to be a perfect big sister. Again."
Carlisle raises his glass. "To family. And secrets well kept."
Laurent whistles, shaking his head. "Man, I thought y'all were just tired. Should've known better."
Irina's eyes are glassy, her hand drifting instinctively to her own belly. "You kept that quiet for twelve weeks? I can barely go twelve minutes without telling someone I'm pregnant."
"Same," Alice adds. "I told Jasper before I peed on the stick."
Irina laughs, still emotional. "This baby is already so loved. You two are—" she shakes her head, choked up. "You're the kind of parents that make the rest of us look bad."
"Speak for yourself," Laurent says, leaning back smug. "My kids think I'm a superhero."
Irina snorts. "Because you taught them to say that."
"Marketing, baby," he grins.
More cheers. Napkins fly. Half the table gets up to hug me and Edward like we just got engaged again. There's laughter, clinking glasses, someone yelling, "Wait, when's the due date?!"
Then Mason charges up beside me, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. "Okay, but now can I tell everyone it's a ninja baby?"
Maisie crosses her arms and glares at him. "We agreed not to say that."
He shrugs. "I was excited."
Edward slides back into his seat beside me, watching the chaos unfold like it's the best game he's ever played.
"They're so proud of themselves," he murmurs.
I nod, deadpan. "We've created monsters. Secret-keeping, spotlight-stealing, emotionally manipulative monsters."
He grins. "You love them."
"God help me, I do."
And right on cue, a voice yells from outside, "FIREWORKS IN FIVE!"
Edward grabs my hand, laces our fingers tight. "Come on, Bruiser," he says, smiling like it's the best night of his life. "Let's go watch the sky blow up."
Everyone's outside now, lawn chairs dragged across the grass, citronella candles flickering, kids buzzing on sugar and running wild in the twilight. The sky crackles with light, big bursts of red and gold, shimmering like someone shattered the stars.
I'm curled into Edward's side, feet bare, hand resting low on my belly.
He smells like sunscreen and charcoal and the cologne he only wears on holidays. One arm around my shoulders. The other draped lazily across my thighs.
He tilts his head, eyes on the sky. "Do you remember the last time we watched fireworks in Forks together?"
I smile, slow. "The year before you graduated high school."
"Yup. I was seventeen. You hadn't even turned fourteen yet."
I groan. "Man, the age gap was such a big deal back then."
Edward bobs his head, like he's trying not to smirk. "I wouldn't admit it, even to myself, but I was starting to have feelings for you."
I turn, raise a brow. "Looking back, I think you made it pretty obvious."
"What? No I didn't."
"Babe, seriously?"
He pulls the innocent act, eyebrows raised, mouth twitching.
"You held my hand that night."
He blinks. "No I didn't."
"You did."
A pause. Then, under his breath, "Fuck me. I did."
FLASHBACK
Same field. Same sky. Fifteen years younger.
The fireworks were louder than I remembered — or maybe it was just my heart, slamming against my ribs like it was trying to make a break for it.
I was thirteen. Braces. Freckles. Ponytail pulled too tight. Wearing Edward's hoodie because I'd forgotten mine and he'd tossed it at me with a shrug, like it was no big deal. Like it didn't just make my entire year.
He was right next to me.
Edward Cullen.
Tanned arms. Messy hair. Legs stretched out in the grass like he owned it. He was chewing on a toothpick. Which should've been gross, but somehow made him look cooler. Older. Like he knew things. Like he was seventeen.
And I was sitting there, trying to breathe like a normal person.
He smelled really good. I thought it was that Axe cologne all the boys used, but on him it smelled… better. Stronger. Like sweat and sugar and the inside of his car. Oh my God.
And then it happened.
He reached over and took my hand.
Just… grabbed it.
No warning. No joke. Just his fingers sliding over mine, and my whole body going red-hot and frozen all at once.
My heart lurched. I glanced at him, panicked.
He didn't look back. Just stared at the sky.
My stomach somersaulted. Everything went warm and tight and panicked.
Oh my God. Oh my God, he was holding my hand. He was holding my hand.
This could not be happening.
Then he said it so soft, thoughtful: "Who are you gonna marry, Bruiser?"
I stared at him. Speechless.
Internally, I was screaming.
You. You. You. YOU. I'm going to marry YOU. Idiot.
Out loud, I said, "I don't know."
He didn't even glance at me. Just nodded once. "I think I know who I'm gonna marry."
I turned my head. "You do?"
"Yeah."
My voice got a little sharp before I could stop it. "Who? Tanya?"
He laughed — a real one. "No. This girl. She's like… my best friend."
My brain blanked.
Best friend? The only people he ever called friends were Emmett… and me.
I shook my head, confused. "Best friend?" I echoed.
He nodded, still not looking at me. "Yeah."
And for a second, I thought, maybe? Could he mean…?
But he didn't say anything else.
I frowned. "Who is it?"
That's when he finally turned his head. Green eyes locked on me. Super intense, not blinking. My pulse spiked. He was so beautiful.
"Can't tell you," he said.
My stomach dropped. "Okay."
Emmett called from the field, yelling something about the teams being uneven.
Edward dropped my hand. Just like that.
And suddenly I felt cold. Awkward.
He stood, caught a football tossed from across the lawn, already walking backward with that cocky grin like none of this had meant anything.
Then he paused, thumb hooking into his waistband. "Hey, Bruiser?"
I looked up. "Yeah?"
"When I do marry this girl?" His grin softened. "You'll be the first to know."
Then he was gone. Running toward Emmett, leaving me sitting there with a buzzing hand and a heart that didn't know how to beat normal anymore. And okay, yeah, the fireworks were cool, but they weren't him.
BACK TO PRESENT
Another firework explodes overhead, loud and blinding, but I barely register it.
Edward doesn't flinch. Doesn't look up.
He's watching me instead. Still. Intense. Like he's seeing every version of me at once: The girl on the blanket. The woman in his sweatshirt. The mother of his kids.
His eyes burn through me, quiet and certain, like he's willing me to catch up.
He's waiting for it to land and for the realization to hit me square in the chest. Because this isn't just nostalgia. It was message wrapped into a confession. He was saying, "Look what I built for you."
That's when I see it. All of it. The blanket, our hill, the trees. Even that old patch of flattened grass near the fence where it never fully grew back. This is the same field where he held my hand.
Oh my God.
He built his house right here. Not near it. Heck, not even just close to it, but on it.
My breath's gone, because of course he did.
Nothing Edward does is by accident.
I lean into him, voice small. "You meant me, huh? The girl you were going to marry."
His fingers slide through mine again, same way they did all those years ago. Like nothing's changed, even though everything has.
He doesn't hesitate. "I know what I want. And I get what I want."
I lift a brow, trying to tease, but there's too much ache behind my voice. "I wasn't the first to know, though."
His eyes narrow, mouth twitching with something I can't name. "Bruiser," he says, shaking his head just once. "You knew."
It crashes into me all at once.
I smile, soft, a little teary, completely undone. "I think I did."
Edward exhales, as if I just gave him something he's been waiting years to hear.
He leans in, slow and sure, and I meet him halfway.
The kiss is soft at first, but then his hand finds the side of my neck and it deepens. His mouth moves over mine with that same quiet reverence he had the night the twins were born. He's grateful. He still can't believe he gets to have me. His thumb brushes my jaw as my fingers twist in his shirt. Slowly, the world outside of us hums and narrows, and I can't feel or think of anything but him.
Mason screeches from somewhere in the dark, "MAISIE ATE A SPARKLER!"
"WHAT?!" I yell, half-standing.
Edward groans, laughing as he pulls me back down. "False alarm. Bet you five bucks she just licked it."
I sigh, lean into him harder. "Parenthood."
Edward kisses my cheek, warm and certain. "Fireworks every damn day."
I smile, eyes on the sky as it bursts above us, wild and bright, shaking something deep in my chest.
This is what it's always been: parenthood, love, laughter, life. It started here, on this field. With a handhold. A question. A promise.
Her name was Bruiser. She was his best friend's little sister. The girl he said he'd marry. And she'd be the first to know.
I was the first.
I've always been the first.
The End
Thank you for reading Game Changer.