Carlisle loves you. He really, really does, and he’d promised and assured you numerous times that his aversion of intimacy wasn’t for lack of romance because—well, let’s be real, the romance in your relationship is plentiful, but you’re growing restless with just heated kisses and lingering touches.

His unwavering stance on no physical intimacy stems from your physical differences. You’re a human. He is not. Whilst Carlisle prides himself on his restraint, there is no guarantee that he will be able to control himself when put in such a situation. He can’t risk losing control and accidentally hurting you in pursue of carnal pleasure.

Per usual, Carlisle finds himself perched on your bed, fingertips grazing the soft silky duvet tucked underneath his legs. Your bed is well-made, as is the rest of your room; organized and clean, save for a few stray clothes thrown about your floor, but he can’t fault for you that.

He’s hardly thinking of your room, though. Not when you’re sitting on his lap and kissing him the way you are. The kiss is escalating fast, growing heated in an instant, and Carlisle’s hands crawl up from your sheets to your thighs, then settles on holding your hips.

Your own hands travel the length of his chest until you reach the first button of his shirt, and he has to pull away before you can continue, reaching up to delicately shift your wrists away from his clothing.

“Darling, we’ve talked about this,” he says. His voice is soft and affectionate, one of his hands reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair out of your face.