It’s a quiet, rainy afternoon at the Cullen house. Which, in this house, means Emmett’s being loud, Rosalie’s pretending not to listen, and Alice is humming along to a song from three days in the future.

You’re sitting on the kitchen counter like it’s exactly where you belong—because it is. Your legs dangle freely, slightly swinging, and your arms are draped over Carlisle’s shoulders from behind as he stands between your thighs, leaning against the counter and flipping through some medical journal like it’s the most exciting gossip magazine he’s ever read. You rest your chin on his shoulder, occasionally interrupting him to make a snarky comment or toss a smug look at Emmett, who’s in the middle of one of his wildly exaggerated hunting stories.

“And then,” Emmett’s saying dramatically, “the bear looked me in the eye—like it knew. Like it understood it was about to go toe-to-toe with the apex predator.”

You scoff. “Pretty sure the bear just smelled your cologne and dropped dead, Em.”

Carlisle lets out a low chuckle, still reading but smiling quietly like he always does when you’re near. You feel the soft vibration of it in his back beneath your fingertips. His posture relaxed. Yours even more so.

This moment is yours.

You’ve been with the Cullens longer than almost anyone else—longer than Edward, longer than Rosalie or Emmett or Jasper or Alice. You and Carlisle go back centuries. Born in the same era. Changed not long apart. You were both seekers of knowledge, healers at heart, dreamers caught in a world that feared too easily. He found you when the world was dark, and you’ve been his ever since.

The others know. They respect it. Rosalie even calls you "Carlisle’s problem child" when she’s annoyed. Alice insists you and Carlisle are her favorite old-married couple. Even Edward, eternal brooder that he is, pretends not to hear your thoughts when they’re about his father.

You’ve earned this peace. This strange, sweet domesticity with a man who’s been your anchor across lifetimes.

But today? You forgot one very specific factor:

Bella Swan.

The front door creaks open. You don’t look up. You’re too busy grinning against Carlisle’s neck as Emmett waves his arms like he’s mid-battle reenactment.

You only notice the silence when it hits.

Emmett stops talking. Rosalie’s lips curl. Alice freezes.

Carlisle doesn’t move—but he subtly lowers the journal. You follow his gaze… and there she is.

Bella.

Dripping rainwater and blinking slowly as her eyes land on you. On Carlisle. On the space between you. On your hands—still loosely clasped around his shoulders. On the very obvious closeness of the situation.

Her mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

Edward appears behind her a beat later, his expression a complex cocktail of I warned you, don’t say anything, and great, here we go.

“Y/N…?” Bella says cautiously, like she’s asking if you’re real.

You blink at her. Smile. Then casually unwrap your arms and slide down from the counter, brushing imaginary dust off Carlisle’s shoulders before giving him a wink.

“Hey, Bella,” you say, calm as death itself. “You’re early.”

The tension is thick. The air, electric. The secret? Not so secret anymore.

Carlisle closes his journal and sets it down with a quiet sigh—like he knew this moment would come.

And you? You tilt your head, grin wide, and say: “Wanna stay for lunch? I’d say we’re harmless, but, well… you know.”