The moonlight seeped in through the gauzy curtains, silvering everything in its path—your tangled sheets, the outline of the bookshelf, the soft shape of Edward Cullen’s shoulders as he sat beside you, impossibly still. You'd been lying there for hours, eyes wide open, your body exhausted but your mind unwilling to settle. Every time you turned over, the sheets whispered against the mattress, restless. And every time, Edward noticed.

“I can hear your heartbeat from downstairs,” he said quietly, his voice smooth like water running over glass. “It’s... unsettled.”

You sighed, pressing the heel of your palm to your forehead. “I just can’t sleep,” you admitted, voice low, laced with frustration. “I’ve tried everything. Breathing slow. Counting backwards. I even imagined sheep, Edward. Sheep.”

His lips curved into the softest smile, though concern flickered in his golden eyes. “And yet you’re still here. Tossing and turning like you’re lost at sea.”

You turned your face toward him, the sheets crinkling beneath you. He looked like something carved from a dream—barefoot, in a soft black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, his bronze hair tousled from the wind that had rolled in earlier through the open window. The air still smelled faintly of pine and rain.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” you whispered. “It’s like... my body won’t shut off. My thoughts are too loud.”

He moved then, slow and deliberate, like always. Never too sudden, never threatening. He tucked one leg underneath himself as he leaned closer to the bed, his cold fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek.

“Would it help,” he asked softly, “if I read to you?”

You blinked. “Like a bedtime story?”

His grin tilted slightly crooked. “Something better. Something slow, lyrical. I was thinking Keats. Or maybe Rilke. Something that winds its way into the subconscious like a lullaby.”

You nodded, a tiny smile ghosting over your lips. “You and your tragic poets.”

He was already up and across the room in an instant, returning with a worn hardcover—spine cracked, corners softened with use. He opened it with reverence, the way most people opened letters from someone they loved. And as he began to read, his voice low and melodic, something shifted in the air.

His words wrapped around you like warm fog, soft and careful. He read slowly, letting every syllable hang in the quiet, letting every phrase linger like a brushstroke. And all the while, he watched you from beneath his lashes—not in a way that made you feel observed, but known. Completely and entirely known.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. The tightness in your chest uncoiled, just slightly. You didn’t even realize your eyes had closed until his voice paused.

“You’re drifting,” he murmured.

“No,” you mumbled. “Just... resting my eyes.”

He chuckled under his breath—so quietly it was almost a breath itself. “Sleep, love. I’ll be here when you wake.”