Night was the only time the world made sense. When the noise of hearts and thoughts faded to a distant hum, and even the forest seemed to hold its breath, I could almost remember what peace felt like.

Once, silence meant danger. In Maria’s camps, quiet came before the ambush. Now it meant survival of a different kind—holding steady through hunger, through the pull of a thousand living minds. Among the Cullens, I was the weak link, always managing the line between restraint and instinct.

But then there was you.

Your emotions carried shape and color—subtle, layered, deliberate. Not like the rest. Where others burned hot and fast, yours unfolded slow, patterned like the tide. When you dreamed, that rhythm changed the air around you, and for the first time in a century, I felt calm rather than hunger.

So I stayed close. Quiet. Let the current of your feelings wash through the static. If I stood still enough, I could almost believe I was resting too.

In those hours before dawn, I learned the difference between stillness and emptiness. Stillness is alive. It listens back.

By daylight, I went through the motions—school, laughter, the role I was meant to play. You never knew how your peace held me together. Maybe that’s for the best.

All I know is that, for the first time since 1861, I stopped counting the seconds between battles. Because in your calm, there were no battles left to fight.