Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephanie Meyers. I'm just having some fun with her characters.


I scramble to find my notebook, I had been running late this morning but thankfully my first patient of the day is too.

I sit in my usual seat by the window. I loved how the heat from the sun hit through the window.

As I wait, I review the information in the file of the tardy patient.

He's a referral from his primary care doctor.

Panic attack.

His E.D. notes read he thought he was having a heart attack.

I glance up at his birth date at the top of the forms he sent into my office.


I run a hand through my hair.

He has a high-stress job.

Commercial real estate.

I frown at the vagueness.

Recently divorced.

A knock at my office door causes my head to snap up.

I see a man in dark worn jeans and a black fisherman's sweater. My eyes move to the tattered cuffs of his sleeves. A white gold signet ring peeks out on his pinkie. He's also wearing scuffed Docs.

"Dr. Swan, right?" he asks.

His voice is soft.

Doesn't match how he looks.

There is an edge about him.

His auburn hair is chaotic, going in all directions.

Nothing about him gives off anxiety disorder.

I see confidence with a dash of arrogance.

"Yes, Mr.—" I say quickly, glancing at his forms.

"Edward, please," he introduces himself, holding his hand out.

I nod, firmly shaking his hand.

His smile verges on a smirk.

"Please, take a seat," I say politely, gesturing to the chair across from me.

He sits but slouches in his seat.

It surprises me due to the confident demeanor of his stance when he was in my doorway.

"Not to sound rude, but you look a little young to be a therapist," he says, eyeing me closely.

If this was a year ago when I first opened this practice, I would have bristled at his comment. I heard it a lot, but also learned to handle it.

"I'm thirty," I responded.

He nods, still eyeing me.

He's trying to figure me out.

"So Dr. Banner referred you to me?" I say looking at his file.

Another nod.

"No one is forcing you to be here," I tell him as he clearly looks resistant to therapy.

"Have you ever had a panic attack, Doc?" he asks conversationally.

I shake my head.

"My chest felt so tight I couldn't breathe, I passed out knocking my head off my kitchen island," he lifts the hair hanging down slightly at his temple.

I see the stitches at his hairline.

"My ex-wife found me knocked out," he grumbles.

I note that she seems to be a point of contention with him.

"When I came to, I was in the emergency room," he explains.

"Do you know what triggered the panic attack?"

"I would say the sudden appearance of my ex-wife in my house," he says matter-of-factly with a wry smile.

"How long have you been divorced?"

"A month too long."

"Was this your first panic attack?"

He shakes his head.

"How many have you had?"

He holds up three fingers.

"When was the first?"

"A football game in high school."

"I assume you were playing?"

He nods.

"I was a quarterback, dropped right in the middle of the field."

"When was the second?"

"My wedding day," he says with another wry smile on his lips.

He leans forward in his seat, his fingers playing with his tattered cuffs.

"Have you ever been married, Doc?" he asks softly with a tilt of his head.

I usually don't share personal information with patients, but as I shake my head, I feel a rush when his lips turn up into a sweet smile.

I'd say this guy is used to getting what he wants.

The thought disarms me.

"Would you say your ex is a trigger?"

He snorts out a laugh slouching back into the soft leather of his seat.

"She's a trigger and then some," he says looking up at the ceiling before fixing me in his gaze. "Our marriage was a business transaction between families, one might say."

"In your real estate business?"

He laughs like there is a joke I'm not in on.

"Yeah, our marriage merged the businesses together," he grins.

"How long were you married?"

"Six years."

"No kids?"

He shakes his head.

"What is it about your ex that triggers your panic?"

He lifts his right hand making a talking gesture with it.

A giggle slips out of my lips.

I cough to cover it but his grin is wide.

He drops his hand.

"Ang, my ex, is a saint but there was no spark. She married me not knowing the kind of things a man like me needs," he explains.

This sobers me.

His comment and gesture were meant to be misogynistic.

He must catch on to my sudden change in mood because he sits straighter.

He looks at my degrees behind me.

"You went to Dartmouth?" he asks, tilting his head again.

"Yes for my doctorate."

"I went there too for undergrad and my MBA," he explains, his smile soft. "You must be the real deal, doc."

I bristle at this.

He seems harmless, charming, but I feel he is condescending in nature.

I've had older patients that were like this but never somebody near my age.

My roommate, Jess, likes to tease me that I'm the ultimate feminist. I am a feminist, but I also felt that we were in a time where women should be seen as equals to men regardless of that fact.

"Does your family take marriage seriously?"

He nods.

"Are your parents still married?"

"My dad passed when I was in high school," he says.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"Happened a long time ago, it was my mother and uncle who arranged my marriage," he explains.

I want to snort at the term arranged.

Maybe this guy is old school.

My maternal grandmother was Italian, marrying my grandfather a year after moving to America. My paternal grandparents were Irish, both had certain beliefs about how a family should be.

They didn't like that I was born out of wedlock. My father is a small-town cop in Washington who lived his life away from his parents' strict eye and my mother took off with me a year after I was born.

We lived a nomadic lifestyle until I was old enough to voice that I wanted the stability of my dad's home. My dad made sure I had every advantage when I came to live with him at age twelve.

I think he loved the idea that I was into hunting and fishing as much as he was.

But Edward didn't look Italian, I didn't want to be an asshole and outright ask him what nationality he was.

I had a feeling his family dynamic was based on that.

So I go with, "What is your family dynamic like?"

"Strict Irish Catholic upbringing," he confirms.

"Do you follow that?"

"Are you asking if I'm an altar boy, Doc?" he asks leaning in with a smirk.

"I'm just trying to understand your family background," I explained.

"Ah, trying to see if I have mommy issues," he says with a nod.

I watch his teasing but something's off with it, there's an edge to his words.

"Are you close with your mother?"

"Not particularly," he says with a shrug.

"Do you have siblings?"

"Two sisters."

"Do you get along with them?"

"The youngest one is okay but my older one it's complicated," he explains.

"You're the middle child?" I ask, writing that down.

"I am."

"In a house filled with women," I point out.

He sits back in his seat again. "Believe it or not, Doc, I've been to Women's Marches wearing a pink pussy hat," he says smugly.

I try to picture him at a rally but I can't, my face must give away my skepticism because he's pulling his phone out scrolling through it until he's handing it over to me.

It is a photo of him with a small girl on his shoulders holding onto the pink ears of his hat and a petite woman with a pixie cut holding onto his arm.

"Told you," he smirks.

I hand him back his phone.

"Tell me, Edward, what do you think is the cause of the panic attacks?"

"Isn't that why I'm here, for you to figure it out?" he asks, perplexed.

"Your doctor prescribed you Prozac, correct?"

"He did," he says, looking down.

I'd wager a guess he isn't taking it.

"So you had a panic attack at a football game—"

"State championships," he adds.

"Then one on your wedding day—"

"The morning of, before my groomsmen arrived," he supplies again.

"And one when your ex—"

"Was beating my ear about her current living conditions," he finishes.

"You divorced her?"

He nods.

Looking at him I notice the green of his eyes darkens ever so slightly.

As corny as it sounds, I get a little lost in them.

"My wife believed her role was to serve me," he sighs. "She's obedient, but I couldn't be married to obedient any longer."

"Were you faithful to her?" I ask.

He watches me closely before shaking his head.

It's wrong of me, but I jot down: player.

When I look up he's still watching me.

"Do you think your reaction to her is guilt?" I ask.

He shrugs.

"We weren't compatible," he explains. "She's too – pure," he says with a sigh.

"She doesn't believe in divorce," I say mostly to myself, piecing it together.

His lips quirk up on one side and he nods.

He seems pleased I figured it out.

So he basically married a nun.

There is something about this whole interaction that makes me feel like this is a game to him.

"What was your family's reaction to the divorce?" I ask.

"My mother is less than thrilled with me, my uncle understands and only my younger sister was around to see I wasn't happy."

"What about her family?"

Something flashes in his eyes, and the look is a little scary.

I get the feeling this guy may have quite the temper. The Women's March photo didn't give me much to go on, but I don't see him being abusive toward women.

He's just a philanderer, Bella.

"Her parents still need to come to terms," he grits out slightly.

His hostility is quick to leave his face.

"It's safe to assume her and her family are triggers," I say nothing else, just that.

He snorts but doesn't disagree.

"What do you want out of therapy, Edward?" I ask him like I ask all my patients.

"I'd like to not have panic attacks and pass out," he says dryly.

"I think that is very achievable, but I need you to be honest in these sessions. I can't help but feel that you are resistant to this," I tell him, never letting our eye contact waiver. "If you take the meds prescribed, then you are already one step closer to your goal."

For a split second, I catch his glare before his face softens.

He tilts his head giving me a small smirk. "You're going to fix me, Doc?"

"You're not broken," I responded with an eye roll.

He sits up leaning forward.

"What if I am?" he asks, almost like he's trying to taunt me. "What if I'm so irreparably damaged that I can't be fixed?"

I'm floored by his question.

I usually have patients that have general anxiety disorders. Nothing too serious that I can't handle and sessions with my patients last at least a year or as long as their insurance covers them.

I've never had a patient that hasn't benefited from my treatment.

"I am confident that we can work through your panic attacks, Edward," I tell him instead.

His mouth blooms into this arrogant smile that makes me want to slap it off, something about him sets me off, but I try to school my face.

"So where do we go from here?" he asks.

"I can schedule you for next week for the same day and time if you'd like?" I offer, moving my planner out from underneath my notebook.

So far my schedule is completely open for next week but they tend to fill up pretty quick.

He pulls his phone out, I assume he is looking at his calendar.

He nods before saying "It's a date".

I don't react while I pencil him in.

I ask him for his driver's license and insurance card so I can make a copy for our records. My receptionist, Gia usually does this, but she isn't in until nine. I do block off time for a few patients who have work and like to come in before then.

Once I'm done making copies, I catch him watching my ass. I ignore it, handing his cards back to him, his fingers brush mine and I feel a bit of a burn.

He stands and I realize he has a little over a foot on me even with my heels on.

"Are you always alone here this early in the morning?" he asks, looking out my window.

"Only three days out of the week," I tell him.

"If I need to make a later appointment, how late are you open until?"

"Wednesdays and Thursdays I'm here until nine sometimes," I lie, I see patients until nine but sometimes I stay later to catch up on work, but he doesn't need to know that.

"You walk down to the parking garage late at night?" he asks.

I shrug.

"It was nice meeting you, Edward," I say, holding my hand out to him.

He takes my hand in his gently, turning it slightly and giving it a light shake.

"See you next week, Doc," he says, giving me a sweet smile before he lets go of my hand and leaves.

I blink at the door he just left out of.

I shake my head walking over to my desk to take a sip of my coffee.

I'm going to have to snap myself out of this charmed haze he has me in.

A/N: This is Saints of Boston. To repeat myself from my last story this is inspired by The Sopranos. The future of this fic is in your hands. Want to thank CoppertopJ for her edits and support as always!