He notices her moving closer, of course he does, and the monster chained inside him writhes in impatience, but this isn't the moment to worry about the monster, and for the first time, he can possibly see how Carlisle can have the control he has: focusing so intently on something else that the proximity of a human and her blood just doesn't matter as much.
It's her, it must be. It must be her that Alice meant. There are plenty of women with red hair in the world, but how many of them have fed him in a way that kept them breathing and whole and moving? How many of them has he, with his icy skin and leashed-up monster inside, kept warm?
Which leads to the larger question of how he's ever going to pitch this. The certainty of it has sunk into him, tethered him to her, and he knows leaving her would make him ache in almost the way being apart from Alice makes him ache. But from what he knows of her, her life has been death. Her meaningful connections with people have been fleeting, or built on conditions that she herself sets. She's never known something like this, and worse, she never plans to, and she's made peace with that, of a kind. As much peace as she ever allows herself.
He could still be wrong. He's moving too slowly now, noticeably too slowly, as he reaches out and avoids touching her skin but hooks a lock of her red hair over a finger, and draws it gently along, and lets it fall again and pulls his hand back. "That morning pick-me-up you so kindly provided," and his voice is lower, a little hoarse with bewilderment now, "was that something you were planning on doing often?"
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It's her, it must be. It must be her that Alice meant. There are plenty of women with red hair in the world, but how many of them have fed him in a way that kept them breathing and whole and moving? How many of them has he, with his icy skin and leashed-up monster inside, kept warm?
Which leads to the larger question of how he's ever going to pitch this. The certainty of it has sunk into him, tethered him to her, and he knows leaving her would make him ache in almost the way being apart from Alice makes him ache. But from what he knows of her, her life has been death. Her meaningful connections with people have been fleeting, or built on conditions that she herself sets. She's never known something like this, and worse, she never plans to, and she's made peace with that, of a kind. As much peace as she ever allows herself.
He could still be wrong. He's moving too slowly now, noticeably too slowly, as he reaches out and avoids touching her skin but hooks a lock of her red hair over a finger, and draws it gently along, and lets it fall again and pulls his hand back. "That morning pick-me-up you so kindly provided," and his voice is lower, a little hoarse with bewilderment now, "was that something you were planning on doing often?"