It started at 3:17 a.m.

She knew because the digital clock glowed accusingly against the dark.

Edward was whispering.

Not softly enough.

“…What has four legs in the evening, two in the morning, and absolutely no appreciation for being interrupted mid–cognitive breakthrough…”

The mattress shifted as he pushed himself upright, clearly energized.

Papers rustled.

A pen clicked.

She didn’t move.

Maybe—just maybe—if she stayed perfectly still—

“Ah,” he breathed. “You’re awake.”

Of course he knew.

He always knew.

Edward leaned back against the headboard, glasses already perched perfectly on his nose despite the hour.

“I attempted restraint,” he said defensively. “Truly. But the structure of it demanded refinement.”

He gestured vaguely to the notepad in his hand.

“You see, the original phrasing lacked elegance. I corrected it.”

Another scribble.

The lamp flicked on.

Blinding.

He didn’t notice.

“Consider this,” he continued, fully animated now. “What sleeps beside brilliance yet pretends indifference to genius after midnight?”

A beat.

He tilted his head slightly.

“It’s rhetorical.”

He glanced at her—or rather, at the unmistakable tension radiating from her side of the bed.

“I cannot simply silence inspiration,” he added, scandalized at the very idea. “Would you prefer I allow mediocrity to fester?”

He adjusted the blankets absently, still talking.

“This is progress. Refined wordplay. Sharper cadence.”

He tapped the pen against his chin.

“Besides, statistically speaking, couples who engage in shared intellectual stimulation—”

The pillow hit him square in the chest.

Edward blinked.

Then, slowly—

He smiled.

“Noted,” he murmured, jotting something down.

“What weapon flies without wings, strikes without warning, and demands silence from genius?”

He glanced at the clock.

3:23 a.m.

Perfect.

Inspiration, after all, did not respect office hours.

And neither did Edward.