Edward’s penthouse was always your safe haven when your parents were away. Tonight, like every other time, he was there—seated in his rocking chair, a book in hand, the fireplace painting his face in warm gold.

The fire crackled as Edward looked up from his book, his sharp eyes softening the moment they landed on you.

"You look like you’ve been through a war," he murmured, closing the book slowly—too slowly—as if he already knew how your night had ended.

He set it down on the side table. No title. Just smooth leather binding, like all his secrets.

"Come here."

Not demanding. Never that with you.

Just warm.

Always just for you.

And damn it—you wanted to stay mad, wanted to feel strong and untouchable—but something about his voice…

That space…

That man—

made your throat tighten.

Edward patted the armrest of the chair beside him, like he already knew what kind of damage had been done tonight.

"Who hurt my girl?" he asked softly.

And God help you—there wasn’t pity in his voice.

It was a promise.