The room is silent except for the rhythmic sound of your breathing, but Edward hears something else—something that drowns out everything else in the world.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Your heartbeat. Steady, warm, impossibly alive.

You’re lying beside him, close enough that his cold fingers can trail along your wrist, where your pulse thrums against his touch. His eyes, gold and unreadable, stay locked onto the place where your lifeblood runs just beneath your skin.

His thumb brushes over it, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath.

“You don’t know how loud it is,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “How it calls to me.”

You tense slightly, but not in fear. He wouldn’t be saying this if he intended harm. No, there’s something else in his voice—something softer, more reverent.

He lifts his gaze to yours, searching, studying. “Not just for blood,” he continues, almost hesitant. “But because it means you’re alive.”

Your heart skips a beat, and his lips twitch.

“Like that.”

You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of every beat, every breath, the way your body betrays you under his careful attention. His fingers remain featherlight against your wrist, as if he’s memorizing the pattern of your existence, as if it’s something sacred.