The shrill screeching of the alarm on my bedside table echoes in the silence of our room. I bury my head further into the crook of my wife's neck, secretly hoping that if I attempt to muffle its cacophony, I could pretend it doesn't exist. Esme's shoulders shake as she giggles, a vastly more pleasant sound than the obnoxiousness blaring from my phone. I close my eyes tighter than before as I feel her pull away from my grasp. The tips of my fingers still graze her skin, while the room falls silent once more. And before Esme can slip away from the world of blankets and pillows, I tenderly tug her back to my embrace.

My fingers lace with hers and I brush several kisses across her shoulders and up to the base of her neck. She turns to face me. My hands almost instinctively tangle themselves in her hair, as I gently tilt her lips closer to mine. I am allowed one fervent peck, before a delicate hand presses its soft fingertips to my chest. I drop my head and pull back. When I look at my wife, she smiles, as she softly shakes her head in a silent snicker.

"You're going to be late," Esme muses.

Her words flow through one ear and out the other, as I am far more captivated by the veil of thick black lashes that frame her entrancing eyes.

"Carlisle," my love speaks more sharply, catching my attention, "Did you hear me? You're going to be late for work."

"I've decided to call in sick," I fake a cough, as I stretch across our silk sheets.

She rolls those incredible eyes, and props herself up on an elbow, "You can't be sick today, you have that meeting with Dr. Snow. You know, the one you missed two weeks ago because 'you were sick.' You promised him you wouldn't reschedule."

I begrudgingly sigh, "Why must you hold me to my word?"

"I don't" she smirks, nuzzling her nose against mine, "You've upheld such standards your entire life. But, I know I'm the only reason you'd deviate from the moral high ground."

She places a genuinely chaste kiss on my lips, an innocent sentiment after such a leading statement. I pull back knowing she will be upset if I choose to ignore her kind warning. Esme was right. I shouldn't skip work no matter how desperately I want to be by her side. Yet, how could I resist when the most incredible woman sits in front of me, clad only in our lavender bedsheet. Purple hues always accentuate her already unmatched beauty. My eyes find her serious gaze and I now know there is certainly no way I can convince her I need to stay home. I inhale sharply and nod in tentative agreement.

Esme smiles softly before kissing my forehead, "Thank you."

"For what?" I grin back.

"For not allowing me to feel like a complete temptress," she winks, as she slides out of bed, "Now why don't you relax a bit. I'll pick out something that'll look nice for your meeting."

I watch as my wife saunters over to the closet and opens its double doors. The light inside automatically switches on, illuminating a small section of the bedroom, silhouetting Esme's alluring frame. I can feel my jaw immediately drop as my eyes follow the curvature of her figure from head to toe. My brain hyper focuses, as I am transfixed by every aspect of her mind, body, and soul. Then in the back of my head I hear the voice of my son and suddenly I am transported back to an earlier conversation.

"So, Carlisle," Emmett boomed, "Are you an ass man or a tit man?!"

Jasper nearly snorted in laughter, as he felt my discomfort. Thank goodness the girls had gone hunting. They would have scoffed at this sort of locker room banter.

"I beg your pardon?" I looked up from my newspaper, brows furrowed.

"Do you like Esme's butt better or do you like her boobs?" my giant son shrugged, "Every guys got a preference. Me, I like boobs, but Rose isn't lacking in either department. So, I can't complain. Jasper overhear prefers a little junk in the trunk. So, what's your preference? And don't say something lame like eyes. Edward did that. He's no fun."

I heard Edward audibly groan from his piano and a small chuckle rose in my throat. While normally I tried not to partake in such debauchery, I felt compelled to answer Emmett's question, even if it was at Edward's expense. I sat there thinking of every tiny detail of my wife, debating which part of her I tended favor most. And before I could decide between her breasts and her bum, I found myself slumped forward think of several other parts too. Emmett and Jasper stared intently, as I try to formulate an answer.

"Give it a rest, Carlisle," Edward shouted, "You'll be the first vampire to have an aneurysm if this keeps up," He turned to his brothers, "The answer is simple gentlemen, Carlisle is an 'Esme Man'. Always has been, always will be."

Now, here I sit again, awestruck by this beautiful woman, unable to find an answer to a silly question. Esme's back is still to me, as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her hips sway and her bum bounces with each little pop. I guess, in the context of what Emmett was referencing, I would say her ass. It was perfect. No, immaculate. Hand crafted by DaVinci or perhaps even God. But, then I think of how her breasts are equally divine. And less selfishly I remember their true purpose was to nourish her son. It is now that I realize, if I want an honest answer I must think beyond my own carnal desires.

However, while both breasts and bums are well and good, I can't help but feel as if my choices are limited by the question. It doesn't take into consideration my Esme's long beautiful legs. I watch hopelessly has she stands on her toes, reaching for a tie in the top basket. Those legs keep pace with me as I run and wrap around my waist as she leaps into my arms. I've watched those legs carry her up mountains and trees. And it was her leg that was broken on that fateful day we first met. I owe a lot to those legs, so maybe I'm a 'leg man.'

Yet, if I'm truly thinking about what brought us together, I would have to thank Esme's neck and shoulders. A slender neck atop strong shoulders, and at their meeting a tiny scar I left when I changed her. Besides her lips I believe I kiss this area most. Not only because I feel some sense of guilt for choosing to damn her to this life, but by doing so I allowed her to help me carry my cross. The weight of the world stands not a chance when my wife so graciously agrees to lift its burdens beside me. But, who in their right mind would call themselves a 'shoulder man'? And if I called myself a 'neck man' surely people would discover our secret.

So, maybe I'm an 'arm man'? I'm not sure if that's sounds odd either. Oh, how I am indebted to her delicate arms. The ones that welcome me home every day in a warm embrace and allow her to twirl when we dance. The arms that fold over her chest when are children misbehave. The arms that honestly hold our entire family together. But, if we talk about Esme's arms, we cannot forget her hands. My wife's hands are incredibly versatile. They are constructive when they cook meals, tie my tie, design homes, and make art. Yet, they're fierce taking down prey for a meal or an enemy in battle. But most importantly they are tender and gentle for providing comfort to our children, for cuddling babies close, for stoking my cheek and holding my hand.

I turn back to the closet more lovesick than I had previously been, if that were at all possible. I swallowed hard as Esme pulls the cotton shirt down from the hanger and draping it over her arm. She playfully rolls her eyes and shakes her head. I've been caught. If I could blush, I would have been tomato red. I bow my head in a silent apology and take notice of part of her that I so ignorantly forgot to mention, her tummy. Esme sees I'm still staring and zeros in on the location. For a moment she stops and readjusts the shirt on her arm to hide her stomach from my gaze. She doesn't think that I'll notice. But, I do, and it breaks my heart.

The fact that my Esme thinks any part of her is imperfect will always astonish me. But, I know that even the effects of vampirism cannot take away self-doubt and insecurities. True, my wife is less angular than most of our kind, but that makes her all the more special. It is reflective of who she is on the inside. A brutally soft and caring woman. I tell her often that I love her tummy as much, if not more, than the rest of her. Even when she protests. I remind her that when she was human it changed to hold life. That I am in awe of the fact that her body was able to labor, push, and bring a child into this world. I tell her it is where I feel most connected to her son because for the months, he grew inside of her he was placed directly under the sound of her beating heart. And that same sound, although far more faint, is what brought us together.

Esme emerges from the closet and in an instant I'm at her side, clinging to her as if my life solely depends on her presence. Her arms reach around my back holding me close as she rests her head on my chest. My mind is racing. I think about all that is, and was, and will be. I place my head on top of hers, as we gently sway from side to side. And in the midst of me overthinking a simple question, I remember Edward's simple answer. I am an 'Esme Man.' For how could I pick just one aspect of her body that I love most. Or her mind. Or soul. Or heart. They were all connected and interwoven to create her. My Wife. My love. My Esme.

"I love you," she murmurs, breaking my intense concentration.

"And I love you, all of you."

I finally exhale, as I place a kiss on the top of her head, taking in all that is the Essence of Esme.