You sat on the edge of the pristine countertop, blood still welling in a thin line along your arm, dripping crimson against the sterile white of the room. And he was there—Carlisle—sleeves rolled, tie loosened, hands gentle as sin.

His golden eyes were locked on the wound, unblinking. Calm. But under that perfect composure, you could feel it—that coiled tension. Like a lion pacing behind glass.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, watching the way he handled you—like something sacred and breakable. His fingers barely brushed your skin, and even then, they lingered too long.

He didn’t look up. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His voice was low. Soothing. Every word laced with that impossible control, like he’d trained every cell in his body not to want you. And it was working… almost.

He reached for a piece of gauze, pressed it gently to the wound. The blood soaked through instantly. You watched his throat tighten as he dropped it, grabbed a fresh one. Still no slip in his movements. Still flawless. But you saw it. In his jaw. In the way his breath hitched.

“Does it ever get easier?” you asked. Soft. Curious. Dangerous.

He paused. Just for a second.

Then he met your gaze.

“No.” His smile was tight. Tragic. “But you learn to live with the thirst. You learn to… manage it.” A beat. His eyes dropped to your lips. Just for a second. “Most of the time.”

He turned away, rinsed his hands like it would wash away the war he was fighting in his chest. When he faced you again, he was further back—safer. Distant. But his voice cracked just enough to betray him.

“You shouldn’t trust me alone with you like this.”

And that was Carlisle’s version of confession. Not lust. Not love. Hunger wrapped in guilt.