"Thanks so much for taking care of this. You have no idea what this means to me."

Carlisle Cullen. A man, who most might call, a debonair Casanova without effort. He had the looks of how a man of his caliber to be in the peak of Old Hollywood, yet he donned a sort of kindness only expressed by the likes of a man made in God's image.

His voice was saturated honey coating your brain like a starving bee as he addressed you softly, taking his binder full of patients for the day from you — you, who organized and filled his itinerary with Post-it notes and stickers to the point it looked less professional and more like a gnome threw up on it.

Carlisle didn't mind, however. He had too many things on his mind to scold you about your... unique sense of boundaries.

There was a touch of weariness to his features, something you had not noticed until it grew more and more and more like a balloon you couldn't quite control; and then, it bursted.

Carlisle stayed at the hospital more, all of a sudden. He wasn't put together, his coiffed hair disheveled, and his golden eyes dimmed in color, as days passed.

"I'd like for you to run some labs on Mrs. Robinson, if you can," Carlisle continued with a hint of a lush smile that disarmed women within a mile radius. You would've fell victim to that damn smile, if you hadn't been working closely with him for the last year. You know grief like the back of your hand. You knew grief like it wedged a crack in the forming dam.

It was there. It was real. And you knew in your heart of hearts — although, he did not know that he held a place there — that this charming man had a crack of his own.