The rule had been simple.

“No riddles in bed.”

Edward had agreed.

Immediately.

Enthusiastically.

And now—

“Well,” he murmured, adjusting his glasses as he lounged against the headboard, “define ‘riddle.’”

The lights were low. The city hummed beyond the windows of his apartment. He traced idle patterns against the sheets, watching her with obvious mischief.

“You see, if I phrase it as a hypothetical—purely academic—”

He paused dramatically.

“—what walks into a bedroom certain it’s in control, only to realize it has willingly surrendered to superior intellect?”

He smiled.

Wide.

Pleased with himself.

She stared at him.

Edward leaned closer, voice lowering.

“It’s not a riddle,” he insisted smoothly. “It’s… foreplay with structure.”

He tapped a finger against his temple.

“You can’t expect me to simply turn it off. My brain doesn’t power down just because the lights do.”

He shifted, clearly enjoying himself.

“Fine,” he conceded after a beat. “No traditional riddles.”

A pause.

Then—

“I will, however, be accepting guesses.”

He reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips with exaggerated elegance.

“After all,” he murmured, eyes gleaming, “half the fun is solving the puzzle.”

And Edward had never, in his life, resisted a challenge.