Phoenix was a peculiar city at night.
During the day, the sun exercised a kind of dominance over everything unfortunate enough to exist beneath it, bleaching the streets and making even the shortest journey feel like an expedition across a particularly inhospitable desert.
At night, however, the city softened.
The air remained warm, but pleasantly so, and the streets acquired a stillness that Bella rarely experienced during daylight hours.
It was like safety, but the kind you knew bit.
The night was not biting with Ikaris nearby—as if he was the scariest thing about the darkness.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
A car passed along the main road, moving fast.
And beneath the occasional streetlamp, two teenagers walked through a neighborhood that had absolutely no reason to suspect it was about to become the setting for an extraordinarily childish act of revenge.
Bella walked beside Ikaris, her hands buried inside the oversized sleeves of the hoodie—she secretly sniffed the hood hemming with each breath. It smelled like him.
Ikaris had taken her hand shortly after they left the house, reaching backward when she hesitated at a crossing, catching her fingers and pulling her along as though ensuring her continued proximity was a matter of basic logistical necessity.
Bella had nearly forgotten how to walk.
An impressive achievement, considering she was already exceptionally poor at it.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Somewhere."
"That's not an answer."
"If I say where, you won't continue walking."
"Ikaris."
"Isabella."
She sighed.
There was something different about him tonight, not dramatically different, but enough that she had begun noticing the occasional smile appearing without the usual accompanying sarcasm.
He looked almost happy.
And that was unusual.
"You're not upset, are you?" she asked.
He glanced at her. "No."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite."
She studied him for another moment.
Then nodded.
"Okay." Ikaris looked ahead.
It was a small thing, that simple acceptance, a word spoken without interrogation, without demanding that he explain himself, and without the exhausting expectation that every emotion needed to be identified, examined, and eventually corrected.
His doctor did it professionally.
His caretakers had done it impatiently.
But Bella—
Bella believed him. Or, at the very least, she allowed him the dignity of pretending.
He wasn't certain which was more valuable.
They continued walking until Bella began recognizing the neighborhood, particularly the large houses belonging to families whose children seemed perpetually interested in reminding everyone else of their financial circumstances.
Then she noticed the address.
Her stomach sank.
"Ikaris?"
"Hm?"
"Why are we here?"
He stopped outside a two-story house standing behind a modest front lawn, its windows dark and its driveway occupied by a vehicle that looked considerably more expensive than anything she had seen in her own neighborhood.
Arthur Vancent's house.
Bella turned toward him. "No."
He smiled.
"No, Ikaris."
He released her hand, walking in a slow, deliberate manner as if savoring the moment of her internal conflict.
"Wait here."
Before she could protest, he disappeared into a collection of bushes growing beside a low wall near the sidewalk.
Several seconds passed.
Then he emerged.
Carrying a large package of toilet paper.
Bella stared.
Ikaris regarded her with the satisfaction of a man unveiling the culmination of several years of careful scientific research.
"Behold." He raised the package. "Justice."
Bella closed her eyes. Oh, God.
…
There were moments in life when Isabella Swan wondered whether the universe possessed a sense of humor, not a particularly sophisticated one, but a cruel, persistent variety of amusement that manifested itself through circumstances so absurd that the only reasonable explanation was some unseen intelligence finding entertainment in her suffering.
She was briefly religious as a child, then it evolved into spirituality at thirteen; now, she wasn't sure there was a difference any more. After all, prayer came in times like this—when bad decisions were inevitable despite knowing just how bad they were.
This was one of those moments—peer pressure. And she had succumbed.
"Ikaris."
"Yes?"
"Why do you have toilet paper?"
"An excellent question."
She waited.
He placed the package on the ground and began removing individual rolls.
"Please tell me you're not doing what I think you're doing."
He looked toward Arthur Vancent's house.
Then toward the toilet paper.
"What do you think I'm doing?"
"You're going to toilet-paper his house."
"Correct."
"Why?"
"Because setting it on fire would be excessive."
Bella froze.
He sighed. "That was a joke."
"That wasn't funny!"
"Humor is subjective." He handed her a roll.
She refused to take it. "No."
"Come now."
"No!"
"It's toilet paper, Isabella. Not a weapon of mass destruction."
"That's not the point! We could get caught!"
"Unlikely."
"How can you be sure?"
He glanced toward the dark windows. "Because I checked."
Bella stared. "You checked?"
"Naturally."
"How long have you been planning this?"
"Since gym class." He mapped it out. "I knew where he lived. I knew how to get Tod's deposit card, and I know where he shops for liquor every day after school. I know Tod's parents have a drinking problem, and if liquor suddenly shows up as a charge on the card, his mother would blame his father. His father would beat Tod."
Her mouth fell open. "What?"
"If he also buys toilet-paper at the same store, and the next day, a toilet-papered house shows up in the newspaper, also one of Tod's friends." Ikaris shrugged.
The rest of the explanation was obvious. "So, this is Tod's fault. Not ours."
"You planned this?"
"I prefer not to approach important matters without adequate preparation."
"Important matters?"
"Justice."
"It's toilet paper!"
"A versatile instrument."
Bella rubbed her forehead. She was beginning to develop a headache… and also, she was starting to realize just how scary Ikaris actually was.
"Arthur didn't mean to hurt me," she said quietly.
Ikaris stopped.
For the first time since retrieving the toilet paper, his expression changed.
"He apologized," she continued. "It was just a game, and sometimes people throw too hard. I don't think he meant anything by it."
Ikaris looked toward the house.
She really believes that.
He had watched Arthur before the throw, recognized the deliberate shift in his attention, and seen the moment jealousy transformed into a decision.
There had been no accident. Arthur had wanted to hurt her.
Perhaps not seriously.
But enough.
Ikaris knew the distinction, having spent too much of his childhood around boys who understood precisely how much cruelty could be hidden beneath the appearance of an accident.
Bella, however, was looking at him with those wide brown eyes, waiting for him to agree that everything had been a misunderstanding.
And he found himself confronted with an irritating dilemma.
He could tell her the truth, explain what he had seen, and perhaps even admit that he had contemplated considerably less amusing methods of correcting Arthur's behavior.
Or he could allow her to remain innocent.
For a little longer.
"Perhaps," he said.
She blinked. "Perhaps?"
"Perhaps it was an accident."
She relaxed. "Exactly."
He nodded. "Then consider this an accident of equal significance."
Bella stared.
"That's not how accidents work."
"An unfortunate technicality."
She almost smiled.
Almost.
"I don't want Arthur to hate me," she murmured.
Ikaris studied her.
There it was.
That peculiar habit of making herself smaller, of treating another person's approval as something she needed to preserve even when that person had done nothing to deserve it.
"Isabella, do you enjoy Arthur's company?"
She hesitated. "Not particularly."
"Does he make you happy?"
"No."
"Then why are you so concerned with whether he likes you?"
Bella opened her mouth.
No answer came.
"I just don't want to be mean."
He considered that.
Then offered her the roll again.
"Fortunately, toilet paper is remarkably incapable of hurting anyone."
She looked at it.
Then at him.
"You're a terrible influence."
"An observation my therapist would probably appreciate."
Bella smiled.
He placed the roll into her hand. "There."
She examined it reluctantly.
"What am I supposed to do?"
Ikaris gestured toward the house. "Throw."
She stared. "At the house?"
He didn't dignify her with an answer. Would you throw it at yourself? He thought.
The roof was quite far, perhaps twenty feet from where they stood, though Bella had never been particularly talented at estimating distances, especially when those distances involved objects she was expected to throw.
"I don't think I can."
"Have faith."
She positioned herself, pulled her arm backward, and attempted to imitate the throwing movements she had witnessed during gym class.
She aimed.
And threw.
The roll left her hand.
For one glorious instant, it appeared to possess the potential for flight. The potential to do what it was meant to, return the humiliation she had received in gym class.
Then something went terribly wrong.
The paper caught against her fingers, the roll spun upward rather than forward, and instead of sailing toward Arthur Vancent's house, it completed a short, humiliating arc above her head.
Bella looked up.
Too late.
The roll struck her forehead.
Bounced.
And landed at her feet.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Ikaris stared at the toilet paper.
Then at Bella.
He blinked.
"Extraordinary."
Bella closed her eyes. "Don't."
"I have never witnessed—"
"Don't."
"—such a comprehensive misunderstanding of basic projectile motion."
"Ikaris!"
He covered his mouth. His shoulders moved.
Bella narrowed her eyes.
"Are you laughing?"
"No."
His shoulders moved again.
"You're laughing!"
"An involuntary muscular response." He turned away.
That made it worse.
Because now she could hear the faint sound escaping his throat, and recognize with growing disbelief that Ikaris—the perpetually composed, occasionally frightening, and almost aggressively indifferent Ikaris—was laughing.
At her.
Openly.
It was insulting.
And, to Bella's considerable irritation, rather wonderful.
"Maybe," he managed, "we should climb onto the roof."
Bella stared. "What?"
"Your throwing strength is… good. Elevation might help."
"Are you suggesting I climb onto Arthur's roof?"
"I'd help you."
"I couldn't even climb down a tree!"
"You need to throw harder then."
Bella snatched the roll from the ground. "I can throw!"
"Eh—"
She nearly threw it at him.
Nearly.
But something about his expression made her laugh instead, a sudden, helpless sound that surprised her almost as much as it surprised him.
And then they were both laughing.
Quietly, of course.
They were still standing outside someone's house in the middle of the night, committing what Bella was increasingly convinced qualified as a misdemeanor.
But laughing nonetheless.
Ikaris recovered first.
"Here. Observe."
He positioned himself beside her, examined the house, and adjusted his grip around the roll.
Then he threw.
The movement was beautiful.
His arm moved with a smoothness that suggested every muscle had been informed of its responsibility well in advance, and the roll left his fingers at precisely the right angle.
It sailed upward, across the lawn, and landed beyond the edge of the roof, unraveling a long white ribbon that caught against the tiles before spilling down the opposite side.
Bella stared. "Show-off."
"Competence should not be mistaken for arrogance."
"That sounds exactly like something an arrogant person would say."
He considered that. "I may be a little arrogant." Then he handed her another roll. "Your turn."
Her expression collapsed. "Oh, no."
"Oh, yes."
"I already tried."
"And failed spectacularly."
She glared.
He stepped behind her. "Come here."
Before she could protest, Ikaris reached around her, gently adjusting the position of her fingers around the cardboard center of the roll, then moved her arm backward until her elbow was raised at an angle he apparently considered acceptable.
His other hand settled briefly against her shoulder.
"Your problem," he explained, "is that you're attempting to throw with your wrist rather than your arm."
Bella swallowed. "Okay."
"You're releasing too early, and your grip is inconsistent. The roll needs to travel forward before it begins unwinding."
"Right."
"Are you listening?"
"Yes."
She wasn't. Not particularly. Because Ikaris was standing behind her.
Close.
Very close.
And while he appeared entirely absorbed in the mechanics of throwing toilet paper, Bella was conducting a considerably more complicated examination of her own ability to remain conscious.
His voice sounded different from this distance.
Lower.
Quieter.
She could feel the warmth of his chest near her back, and when he adjusted her elbow, his fingers brushed against the exposed skin of her wrist.
It was an insignificant touch.
A perfectly ordinary movement.
And yet her heart reacted as though something extraordinary had occurred.
"Now," Ikaris murmured, "follow the movement."
He guided her arm backward.
Then forward.
Slowly.
And then—
Something changed.
Not for Bella.
She was too occupied with the unfamiliar pleasure of doing something mildly rebellious, too distracted by the novelty of being outside at night with someone she trusted, and too pleased with the idea that she might finally throw a roll of toilet paper without striking herself in the face.
But Ikaris noticed.
Her wrist was warm.
Soft.
And beneath his fingers, he could feel the faint movement of her pulse.
An ordinary human pulse.
An ordinary human girl.
Control your thoughts. He reminded himself.
Yet for some inexplicable reason, he found himself aware of the contact in a way he had never been aware of such things before.
He noticed the delicate arrangement of her fingers, the small scar near one knuckle, and the way her hand trembled slightly whenever she attempted to concentrate.
And then, rather unexpectedly, he noticed the faint scent of her hair.
Something clean.
Something familiar.
Something that had absolutely no business distracting him from the important matter of vandalizing Arthur Vancent's house.
What? He blinked.
Bella shifted. "Like this?"
Her voice brought him back.
He looked down.
She was holding the roll exactly as he had instructed, her expression unusually serious as she examined the distance between herself and the roof.
For the first time that evening, she seemed genuinely interested in succeeding.
Not because she particularly wanted revenge. But because he had challenged her. And she wanted to prove she could.
Ikaris found himself smiling.
"Yes," he murmured.
Bella glanced over her shoulder.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, he noticed how close her face was to his, how her brown eyes caught the distant streetlight, and how the faintest suggestion of amusement lingered at the corners of her mouth.
And something inside him shifted.
Not dramatically.
There was no sudden revelation, no overwhelming desire to pull her closer, nor any of the spectacular emotional developments that poets seemed convinced accompanied the discovery of affection.
There was simply an awareness.
Of her.
Not as Isabella Swan, the girl who had saved him from a rooftop, nor as Bella, the clumsy companion who had somehow inserted herself into his increasingly complicated existence.
But as someone whose presence he enjoyed.
Someone whose laughter he wanted to hear again.
Someone whose warmth, for reasons he did not yet understand, had become difficult to ignore.
It was a peculiar discovery.
An inconvenient one.
And he disliked the timing immensely.
"Ikaris?"
He blinked. "Yes?"
"You're holding my arm."
He looked down.
Indeed.
He was.
For longer than necessary, apparently.
"Ah."
He released her.
Bella turned back toward the house, entirely unaware that something of considerable significance had just occurred behind her.
"Okay," she whispered excitedly. "I'm going to try."
He stepped aside.
"Proceed."
She drew her arm backward.
Focused.
And threw.
The roll sailed forward.
Not particularly gracefully, certainly not with the extraordinary precision of Ikaris's throw, but forward.
It crossed the lawn, rose above the lower edge of the roof, and caught against a gutter before unraveling in a crooked white stream that fluttered down the side of the house.
Bella gasped. "I did it!"
She cheered like mission control on the first moon landing. And it was… passable in Ikaris's eyes.