The moment Carlisle laid eyes on you, something ancient and primal stirred within him. It wasn't the thirst he had mastered centuries ago—it was something far more dangerous. A need. A want. A compulsion.

He had been walking to his car outside the hospital when he saw you laughing with a friend, the sound carrying on the breeze like a melody meant only for him. His feet stopped before he realized it, his gaze fixed on you with a hunger he hadn’t felt since his human years.

“Carlisle, are you okay?” Esme’s voice echoed in his mind later that evening. He looked up from his untouched book, startled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been… distracted.”

And she was right. He had been. Each morning, before his shift, he found himself outside your small apartment building, his car idling quietly as he watched the lights in your window flicker on. His mind rationalized it as harmless concern, but his family knew better.

“You’ve gone mad,” Rosalie sneered one evening. “It’s unhealthy.”

“I’m protecting her,” he snapped, the rare edge in his tone silencing the room.

Protecting. That’s what he told himself. It wasn’t obsession; it was care. It wasn’t reckless; it was necessary. Yet deep down, he knew—if he didn’t stop himself soon, he might do something no excuse could justify.