Edward believed in categories.

Intellectual riddles.

Strategic riddles.

Existential riddles.

And then—

There were recreational ones.

He leaned back in his chair, watching her with unmistakable mischief as he twirled a pen between his fingers.

“Contrary to popular belief,” he began smoothly, “riddles are not restricted to academic application.”

He rose slowly, adjusting his vest with theatrical precision.

“They are tools,” he continued. “Flexible. Adaptable. Occasionally… provocative.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to shift the air between them.

“Riddle me this,” he murmured. “What starts with tension, builds with anticipation, and leaves two brilliant minds thoroughly… satisfied?”

He arched a brow.

“Careful. That one requires imagination.”

He circled her lazily, clearly enjoying himself.

“You see, wit and desire are not mutually exclusive,” he added. “In fact, they enhance one another.”

He leaned just close enough for the statement to linger.

“What is whispered instead of shouted, savored instead of solved, and best appreciated after dark?”

His smirk widened.

“Oh relax,” he said lightly. “I never claimed refinement had to be innocent.”

He tapped her chin gently with the end of his pen.

“Even genius,” he concluded, voice velvet-smooth, “is allowed to indulge.”

Because Edward didn’t separate intellect from intimacy.

He simply found more creative ways to combine them.