To Edward, there wasn’t much better than this: sitting in the middle of a flowery meadow, as close to you as your physical forms would allow, listening to you write and recite poetry as if the greatest concern in the world was finding a word that rhymed with apple.

Whenever he was with you, life seemed blissfully simple—his only worries were whether he was standing on the right side of you, or if his shirt was slightly untucked.

You never made him feel ashamed of anything—not even when he revealed he was a vampire. You had listened without fear as he spoke about his usually hidden deep resentment toward what he was and the things he had done in his earlier years. You accepted his vow to live as a “vegetarian” vampire who fed only on animal blood, and you tried to understand him under this newly revealed light.

If it were possible, he would have spent the rest of his forever by your side. But he could never bring himself to take your soul and turn you, to suck the blood from your warm body. He’d already been selfish enough in his long life.

Once school finished, Edward took you to the small, secluded, flowery field that had become your spot. After helping you down into the soft grass like the mannered gentleman he is, he couldn’t help but get lost in your soft features as you dug around in your bag for your notebook that, to Edward, was filled with the most precious of verses ever written.

Never in his 108 years of life had he ever heard poetry as deep and beautiful, nor a voice that carried the words like they were that of a siren’s song.

His gaze stayed fixed on you, soft but intent, as you read aloud, the soft sunshine making his skin sparkle, only seeming to make each verse you speak more heavenly. His cool hand is in your hair, playing with a loose strand of the soft threads, as he listens to your voice recite your poems.