It's less than half a second to recollect the book abandoned on the arm of the chair, and the other half of it to cross the stairs following where Carlisle went. Even if he does pause before the door.

It's the first time he thinks he could just turn around.

Turn around. Walk down the stairs. Walk through his Door.
Be where . . be who . . he's supposed to be.



He closed his eyes as he pushed open the door. Opened them as the wooden panels split the world to reveal another one of books and Carlisle's back, and for a moment

-- hand raised but not touching as he was reading down spine and the way he held his head tilted, beautiful just as he is, normal and ordinary and everything extraordinary in his world, his, ohgodCarlisle, his to the point where he probably could just stride over slam him against a shelf and kiss him delirious again --

Edward can't remember why there's any other option.




It doesn't stay, but Edward does.
Leaning his cheek against the door, watching.