Isabella Swan had always considered herself a reasonably sensible girl.
Not particularly brave, admittedly, nor exceptionally adventurous, and certainly not the sort of person who would willingly investigate strange noises in the middle of the night.
Especially not when her mom had been watching a thriller for half the night.
Perhaps, tomorrow, she would be a convenient-spiritually-religious person once more, but tonight, and maybe just for tonight, she had re-discovered the fear of the unknown.
Unfortunately, whatever sensibility she possessed seemed to abandon her whenever Ikaris became involved, a development that had grown increasingly troublesome over the past several weeks, particularly because he appeared entirely unaware of the influence he exercised over her extraordinarily fragile existence.
And now, apparently, trouble had come throwing rocks at her window.
Bella stirred beneath her blankets, initially mistaking the faint tapping for some particularly persistent feature of her dreams, until another pebble struck the glass with enough force to convince her that the disturbance belonged entirely to whatever ghostly entity her mother had invited into the house through their television.
She pushed herself upright, rubbed her eyes, and glanced toward the window.
Rule number one. She thought. Even if you see something, pretend to see nothing.
Another tap. Then another.
What on earth?
She slipped from her bed, crossed the room, and cautiously pulled the curtain aside.
There he was.
Ikaris stood beneath the weak illumination of a streetlamp, dressed almost entirely in black, his hands tucked into the pockets of a dark hoodie that made him look like someone who had recently committed a crime and was now contemplating whether the experience had been sufficiently entertaining to warrant another.
And he required a partner in crime.
I wonder who is the lucky person. She ironically thought.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
And he smiled.
Not particularly widely, nor with the sort of enthusiasm she had occasionally witnessed from other boys attempting to impress girls, but with a small, almost conspiratorial movement of his lips that suggested—not that he was happy to see her, rather—he was rather pleased with himself.
Bella stared.
He raised a hand.
She raised hers automatically.
Has anyone given into psychological suggestion so quickly? Her thoughts chastised her lack of a backbone.
Then, she remembered that it was the middle of the night.
"What are you doing?" she mouthed, gesturing toward the window with an expression she hoped conveyed an appropriate mixture of confusion, irritation, and the increasingly familiar sensation of being entirely unprepared for his existence.
Ikaris tilted his head.
He couldn't hear her.
Obviously.
As if she didn't know just how well his lip-reading skills were—she knew from watching him a little too closely, which was exactly why she couldn't tell him that she knew.
It would be weird.
Bella sighed, pushed the window upward, and leaned outside. "Ikaris!" she whispered sharply.
"Isabella."
"Why are you here?"
"An excellent question." He paused.
She waited.
He offered nothing further, as if his presence was explanation enough—the arrogance was deafening; yet, somehow felt entirely earned.
Bella glanced over her shoulder toward the closed bedroom door, suddenly conscious of the fact that her mother was sleeping somewhere down the hallway, and that explaining why a boy was standing beneath her window at an hour normally reserved for burglars and particularly irresponsible teenagers would be an extraordinarily unpleasant conversation.
Her mother, for all her flaws, was still a mother.
"Go home," Bella whispered.
"No."
"Ikaris."
"Isabella."
"You're going to wake my mom." She felt on the verge of tears.
"Then perhaps you should stop shouting." He deliberately said it louder than necessary. It was a threat and a statement wrapped up in one.
"I'm not shouting!"
"Your volume suggests otherwise."
Bella closed her eyes. I am going to murder him.
Before she could formulate a suitable response, Ikaris glanced toward the tree growing beside the house, studied its branches with an expression of mild interest, and began walking toward it.
Bella frowned. "What are you doing?"
He placed one foot against the trunk.
Her stomach dropped. "No."
He reached for a branch.
"No, no, no—"
And then he began climbing.
Bella stared in horror as he pulled himself upward with the casual confidence of someone who had apparently decided that gravity was an inconvenience best left to other people.
"Ikaris! Get down!"
He ignored her.
Naturally.
She watched him reach the first substantial branch, swing himself onto it, and continue climbing toward the portion of the tree nearest her window.
There was something deeply offensive about how easy he made it look; she had had that tree for majority of her childhood, and though she knew it with the familiarity of bruised elbows and knees, the tree had still refused to be conquered.
Ikaris, meanwhile, seemed to possess no limitations whatsoever. Or, more accurately, no appreciation for the existence of them.
She withdrew into the room, hurried into the bathroom, and splashed cold water across her face, hoping the sensation would restore enough mental clarity to deal with whatever extraordinary stupidity Ikaris had brought to her doorstep.
She examined herself in the mirror, questioning herself.
Her hair was a disaster, reflecting the state of her thoughts.
Not an unusual development, admittedly, but an especially unfortunate one considering the circumstances.
She dragged her fingers through it, attempted to flatten the more rebellious strands, and then paused.
Why am I fixing my hair? He was trespassing. She should be calling the police. Or her mother. Preferably both.
Instead, she was examining her reflection like an… excited girl?
By the time she returned to her bedroom, Ikaris had reached the branch nearest her window and was examining the distance between them with an expression that suggested he was contemplating something profoundly irresponsible.
"Don't jump!" she hissed.
He looked at her. "I wasn't going to."
"Oh."
"I was considering it."
"Ikaris!" He frowned. That same considering frown that told her he had made a decision, and was considering if she was important enough for him to pretend otherwise.
"Are you coming?"
Bella blinked. "Coming where?"
"Outside."
"It's the middle of the night."
"Yes."
"My mom is sleeping."
"It would be awkward if she wasn't."
"I'm in my pajamas!"
He examined her clothing with an almost insulting lack of interest. "An unfortunate choice of attire for an expedition."
"An expedition?"
"Would you prefer an adventure?"
"I would prefer my bed!"
He considered that. "A compelling alternative." Then he extended his hand. "Come." Both a command and not-a-command?
She stared at it.
Then at him.
Then at the ground beneath the branch.
"No."
"Isabella."
"No."
"I'll help you."
"That's not the problem!"
"Then what is?"
She gestured vaguely toward everything. "The tree! The height! My mother! The fact that you're apparently trying to kidnap me through my bedroom window!"
Ikaris appeared to consider the accusation. "Kidnapping generally involves an unwilling participant."
"I am unwilling!"
"Then we have a problem."
"Yes!"
He sighed, the sort of patient sigh one might expect from a weary adult attempting to explain basic arithmetic to a particularly difficult child. "Would you like to know where we're going?"
She hesitated. "Yes."
"No."
Her mouth fell open. The audacity.
He reached farther toward her. "Come."
There were several reasons Bella should have refused, most of which involved her mother, the possibility of serious injury, and the unfortunate fact that Ikaris had demonstrated a deeply troubling disregard for societal norms and the law.
And yet—
She looked at his hand.
Then at his face.
There was something reassuring about his expression, a peculiar certainty that seemed to suggest whatever he had planned was entirely manageable, even if every available piece of evidence indicated otherwise.
She sighed. "I hate you."
"Understandable."
She placed her hand in his.
And with that, Isabella Swan made what was almost certainly the worst decision of her week. Possibly her month.
…
Getting out of the window proved considerably more difficult than Bella had anticipated.
Ikaris helped her onto the windowsill, one hand supporting her forearm while the other steadied her waist as she attempted to maneuver herself toward the branch.
Bella looked down.
Immediately regretted it.
"Oh, God."
"He's unlikely to intervene." Ikaris joked.
"Please stop talking."
He guided her foot toward the branch, patiently adjusting her position until she found something reasonably solid beneath her slippers.
At this point, she had become a puppet on a string.
"Good. Now the other."
"I can't."
"You can."
"I'm going to fall."
"I won't let you."
She looked at him.
He said it without hesitation, as though the possibility of her falling had already been considered and dismissed as something he simply would not permit.
Bella swallowed.
Then moved.
Somehow, through a combination of whispered prayers, trembling limbs, and Ikaris exercising considerably more patience than she had ever suspected him capable of possessing, she found herself outside her bedroom window.
Standing on a tree.
At night.
With a boy.
Renée would have a heart attack.
The thought was strangely comforting.
At least someone would react appropriately.
They began descending, Ikaris guiding her from one branch to another while she followed with the stiff, frightened movements of someone participating in an activity that had never been included in the natural design of her body.
A thrill of excitement, deep down, ran through her nerves like a shock that didn't register until it had flowed through the body for three seconds.
Every creak of wood sounded like impending death.
And every time Ikaris instructed her to move her foot, she became increasingly convinced that he had somehow mistaken her for a considerably more athletic girl. As if he looked at her and saw someone who could… do things?
Then, finally, they reached the lowest branch.
The ground was close.
Close enough to inspire optimism.
Which was, in Bella's experience, precisely when disaster became inevitable.
"Almost there," Ikaris whispered encouragement.
She nodded.
He stepped down first, turned, and reached for her.
Bella attempted to follow.
Her slipper caught against the bark.
And gravity, which had been remarkably patient throughout the entire ordeal, finally decided to collect its debt.
Her foot slipped.
She gasped.
Ikaris moved.
His arms reached upward, caught her around the waist, and pulled her toward him. Unfortunately, the ground beneath his own feet was uneven, and while his reflexes were sufficiently impressive to prevent Bella from striking the earth alone, they were apparently not quite sufficient to preserve his dignity.
They fell. Together.
Hard.
Or, more accurately, Ikaris fell hard.
Bella landed on him.
For several seconds, neither moved.
She was sprawled across his chest, one hand gripping the fabric of his hoodie while the other rested against the ground beside his head.
Their faces were close.
Terribly close.
Close enough that she could feel his breath against her cheek, close enough to notice the peculiar arrangement of his eyelashes, and close enough that the smallest movement might have transformed an already embarrassing accident into something she would spend the next several years remembering.
Bella froze.
Her heart began performing an extraordinary series of movements that she was reasonably certain violated several established principles of human anatomy.
Ikaris blinked.
She blinked back.
And for one brief, spectacularly foolish instant, Bella wondered whether he might kiss her.
Unfortunately, Ikaris appeared to have read an entirely different collection of romantic novels.
"Are you injured?" he asked.
Bella stared. "What?"
"Your limbs. Are they functioning?"
She nodded.
"Good. Because you're crushing my lungs."
Bella scrambled backward so quickly that she nearly fell again. "Oh, my God! I'm sorry!"
Ikaris sat upright, brushing a collection of leaves from his shoulder with an expression of mild annoyance. "An unfortunate consequence."
"I slipped!"
"I noticed."
He stood, examined the dirt on his clothes, and offered her his hand.
Bella accepted it reluctantly.
And just like that, the moment was over.
For him, at least.
Ikaris reached into a dark bag resting near the trunk, withdrew something black, and held it toward her. "A hoodie," he explained.
Bella examined the garment, remarkably similar to the one he wore, though slightly smaller and considerably less worn.
"Did you bring that for me?"
"Unless you know another person who might benefit from it."
She took the hoodie.
It was soft. Warm.
And, to her considerable embarrassment, smelled faintly of him.
She pulled it over her head, the sleeves extending beyond her wrists while the hem reached halfway down her thighs.
Ikaris examined her.
Then nodded. "Acceptable."
Bella frowned. "Acceptable?"
"You look less likely to attract attention."
She glanced at his hoodie.
Then at hers.
Two figures dressed in black, standing beneath a tree in the middle of the night.
"Are we robbing someone?"
Ikaris smiled.
And Bella immediately regretted asking.