After their months away in Alaska, they return to the sprawling mansion tucked away in the forests of Ashland. As Esme crests the edge of the forest, where earth becomes the lush, unkempt grass and lively gardens she feels almost as if she has returned to their home a different woman. Not different, per say, but there's a subtle kind of confidence that bleeds through her veins as she takes that first step. A confidence that spreads out from her, hidden, much like the sun, until the clouds move and the shimmer is revealed.

Most noticeably it's in this new body of hers. She can feel it in the way she moves now; she's less measured, less careful, less concerned with the ways in which she can interact with the world at large. Perhaps some of it has to do with the documented loss of her newborn strength, but she doesn't feel weaker in its absence. No, she feels empowered.

Maybe it's because of her new way of thinking and being and belonging to the world. She's come to see things about herself, about her relationship with both Edward and Carlisle, and how exactly they are all starting to fit together. And she's made new friends in the process. Good friends. One's who share this strange life, who struggle the same struggle, who have been living as such for centuries, long before even Carlisle. Women who understand her uncertainty and worries and longings. Friends who she's come to think of as family in the short amount of time that they spent together.

She knows she'll miss them dearly until they can all see each other again. Carmen, in particular, had become quite a confidant to her, which she can tell pleased Carlisle to no end. They had spent many long hours talking in the deep, snow covered woods, exploring the vast cut outs of mountainside, and he expressed to her how happy he was that she had become fond of his friends. That she had found happiness there.

She thinks she would have found happiness anywhere he was, simply because it was him she was with, but she'd let him revel in her good moods. Let him indulge her whims, if only because he seemed so ecstatic doing so. He'd followed her to the top of snowy peaks in the purple dawn just so she could see what the sun looked like as it first kissed the snow and he'd chased her to the edges of icy cliffs so she could see the last of the colour upon the horizon as the sun disappeared again.

He'd sat with her for hours, nothing but parchment and charcoal pencils between them. They'd hunted animals, but only so she could see them better, and let them flee again so she could find them another day.

And they'd climbed trees. The oldest and most sturdy among them. The one's that had braved the Alaskan winds and terrible storms. The one's that would still be there in a hundred years to come.

She'd stood on the tops of those trees and heard what her voice sounded like carried by the wind.

All of it, she'd done with Carlisle by her side, and she was quickly coming to see that her feelings for him had become tangled in her very soul. They had seeped into every conscious decision she made, and even those that were unconscious now. The way she gravitated to him in a room, the physical ache his absence created, the warmth that soothed her chest when she sensed he was near. These things had etched themselves into her very being, like her soul was making room for his, moulding and fitting and forming around another person so wholly she almost had trouble wrapping her mind around it.

Carlisle was so different from any man she had ever met, and he would forever be everything she could ever want. Knowing him back then, when she was a girl, he had been a calming sort of fantasy to her. An escape when her life was in ruins. But now, he was no fantasy. Now he was real and firm and bold against her lips. He was whispered words by candlelight. He was gentle fingers tracing her wrist. He was strength when she faltered and joy when she stood again. He was curious and searching and scholarly. Someone who, she supposes, would forever seek to know her, to understand her. He was . . . she wanted him to be hers. Desperately. Without question. Forever.

Alaska was everything that she needed and, in many ways, it had let her decide things that perhaps she had been toying with for some time, whether knowingly or not.

"I think being around the other women was good for you," Edward says as he lays their bags upon the table. They're mostly filled with souvenirs. Little bits of the wilderness that she found too dear not to bring home. Things that would remind her of Alaska.

Esme smiles, laying her hand upon his forearm. He's been privy to so much of her mind for so long now, it's a wonder the boy hasn't gone insane.

"You're not that bad," Edward murmurs kindly. "I rather enjoy the long conversations in your head. I always learn to think of the world in a way I hadn't before."

Carlisle returns with the post, sifting through letters. He glances between them curiously, but doesn't pry.

Edward sighs heavily then. "Besides, you being with us in Alaska this time occupied Tanya greatly, so that was a bonus and I owe you my undying gratitude for the rest of my immortal life." He makes a flourishing little bow.

Carlisle laughs. "She doesn't mean you any harm, son."

Esme hums, tilting her head delicately, her fingers drumming against her bottom lip. "She does quite fancy him, though."

Edward huffs at Carlisle. "See! I told you I wasn't making it up. And now, if you'll excuse me, I quite fancy myself some privacy so," he grins at Esme, "I'm going into town for a while to start researching the new automobile I want Carlisle to buy since I did, in fact, win the race to Alaska."

He disappears in a flash and Esme blinks. She's gotten used to Edward's odd behaviour to a degree. Knowing thoughts before the rest of the room often leaves him acting before others have even registered there is something to be acted upon, but his sudden disappearance still startles her in a way. They've barely settled in again.

"I'm not sure town in the best place to get some privacy," she muses. After all, the house is filled with automobile magazines. Surely Edward could find something to suit his fancy in what is already here.

"I think he was just being nice," Carlisle confesses. He drops a stack of letters upon his desk to be dealt with later and looks a her with the kind of gleam that makes the butterflies in her stomach waken and flutter up against her chest. He walks towards her and she's reminded suddenly of a predator on the prowl. Something lean and fast. A cat perhaps, like the mountain lions that stalk the caves to the North.

"Nice?" she prompts, finding herself stumbling against the chaise, reaching behind to catch herself or else tumble over the top of it. Carlisle makes her lose her senses sometimes. Utterly and completely. She wonders if with time she'll learn to handle herself better, but something tells her that his presence will always leave her somewhat clumsy, especially when he looks at her like that.

In ways that make her feel like she could fall from a cliff and soar.

He catches her in his arms before she can consider any more what will happen if she stumbles. His breath washes across her face, sweet and alluring, drawing her to look upon his face. The look in his eyes leaves her all but shaking and she clings to his sweater, feeling her nails split the fabric.

"Oops," she whispers, inspecting her work. "I didn't mean . . . you—" She looks back to him, noting his smile, less gentle than it is usually, and more deliberate. More instinctual.

He presses his face near hers, inhaling deeply, letting his nose skim her jaw line, then her ear, pressing a kiss where it meets the slope of her neck. His fingers get lost in her hair and she lets her eyes flutter closed. There's a heightened feeling to the sensations when she cannot see him, when she cannot know his next move, and it makes her feel like she might come apart at the seams. Like her vampire body might crack and implode from the inside out, raining crystal dust onto everything.

"Carlisle—" she whispers, feeling herself lose a little bit more control. The words come out as almost a growl and she cannot even take the time to be embarrassed before he's kissing her. Their lips meet like hot metal doused in water. There's a searing kind of pressure that holds them close, that fuses their lips and tongues. She feels his tongue taste the inside of her mouth and she melts, falling into him without thought.

Her hands trail up from his sweater and wrap around his collar, until she's yanking him down, closer to her. So close she doesn't have to stretch as much; close enough to give herself leverage. He's so tall, she thinks. So sturdy. But she's lithe and quick and bold in ways that surprise them both. She tugs on his collar, stepping off with one foot enough to unbalance them, and they both go tumbling to the chaise, over the pleated fabric arm and onto the soft cushions.

She gasps at the feel of his weight on her, not out of fear, but because of how right it feels. How much she wants to be this way with him, tangled and breathless and lost in a kind of desire that is both overwhelming and exhilarating.

She kisses him again, this time exploring his mouth, tasting and caressing and stealing the sounds that come up his throat, swallowing the whispers and praises and epiphanies he makes.

It's Carlisle who pulls away first. He doesn't scramble away the way propriety might suggest he does, but simply looks down at her, studying, assessing, like he's memorizing the look of her: clothes rumpled and hair tossed about without thought.

"I may have been thinking about how nice it is to be home, with just the three of us. And how nice it will be to have you to myself for a while," he says, squeezing her to him. She can feel the length of him against the length of her and it's intoxicating, enough to make her almost delirious. Dizzy in the way she gets when she looks into his eyes for too long. "That is why Edward left," he whispers.

"And what will you do with me all to yourself?" she asks, rubbing her nose along his cheek. His mouth runs along her neck, the edge of his teeth gently caressing her skin. He pauses midway, the place he bit her all those months ago, and the sensation is almost enough to bring her dead heart to life.

A violent surge of energy washes through her, heated and powerful, and it's lust, she thinks. Desire. Want. No, it's need. Wicked and primal and only something she wants with this man. Only him. For eternity.

Their next kiss is fierce and windswept, and Esme holds firm to his collar, even as Carlisle moves to pull away. She makes a noise in the back of her throat as his lips fall to her jaw and before she knows it, she has her leg wrapped around his thigh, her fingers playing with the buttons on his collar, caressing the skin at the juncture that forms at the bottom of his neck.

She's become more adventurous, she thinks. More free with her movements, with letting her desire run away from her just a little. It's so easy with Carlisle. The affection comes so naturally that she often forgets that this is something she once feared from relationships. Everyday with him makes her a little bolder, shows her that things will be completely different this time.

She pulls away as her mind runs wild, breaking the kiss as she realizes her desire has leapt far ahead of where she's ready for them to be yet. It scares her, how very much she wants him, and she has to turn away to catch a breath she doesn't really need. She studies the edge of the chaise, the pale cream and rose-gold threads that weave together. The splintered, translucent fibres that stand alone where they've rubbed against it.

"Esme," Carlisle says from above her and it sounds like a prayer on his lips, the reverence held close, softly against his tongue, like he means to savour her very name. Like he means to lock it away forever. "Look at me," he whispers.

She does, eyes fluttering up to meet his, the warm gold looking like honey against the golden blonde of his hair. He's beautiful, really. A kind of goodness she's never really known, nor is she sure she deserves, but for some reason he thinks she's worthy.

Worthy of his attention. Of his compassion and kindness. And dare she say it, his love.

Yes, love.

She doesn't know how she loves so freely, the only thing she's sure of is that she loves him. This man who continues to save her. He sits up slowly, freeing her, and she props herself upon her elbows, tracing the tangles of her skirt.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she confesses.

Carlisle's tongue dances over his lips as he ponders her thought. "I'd say you do."

She grins up at him but shakes her head, pulling herself up to sit beside him. She smooths out her skirts as she collects her thoughts. His hand folds over hers to stop her unconscious movements, stopping to rest over her knee.

"I envy Edward sometimes," he says gently. "For moments like these, when I want to know what is going on inside that pretty head of yours."

Esme's lips twitch, not into a smile, but something else entirely. He looks at her with such longing. Such patient desire.

"I feel . . ." she begins, but loses the words. They don't seem right. "Well," she starts again, "I guess, what I mean is . . . it's not as if I'm naive to this." She gestures between them. "It's only that everything feels so easy with you. And I think about my mother and how scandalized she'd be to see me now. Barefoot and without my hair pins." She pulls her arms across her chest and hugs her elbows. "I'm not doing this right, am I? Not acting the lady that I'm meant to be. Is it terrible that I've completely ignored all societal conventions?"

Carlisle studies her for a long moment, brushing her hair behind her ear, letting his fingertips brush the bottom of her jaw as he pulls away.

"Esme, I wouldn't say very much is conventional about this relationship. In my experience, when two vampires find each other and share the kind of bond we do, the relationship exists beyond all of that. There's a greater bond that ties them together. One that succeeds all measures of time." He threads their fingers together. "But to speak to your concern, I'm the one who should apologize. I've done a terrible job of courting you so far. It's just that I find myself unable to stay away from you," he confesses. "And the closer I am the harder it is to resist. I just want to be with you, all the time."

"Your not the only one," she assures him, shifting closer. His thumb traces the lines on her palm and she lets her eyes flutter closed, smiling into the touch. "I've always liked being a little unconventional."

"Then marry me."

Her eyes fly open at that, taking in the breathtaking beauty that is his face through her shocked expression. She can see the look reflected in his eyes and she has the common decency to close her mouth after a period. "Carlisle—"

He shifts off the chaise before her, dropping down to one knee. "Esme Anne Platt, I'm a 287 year old vampire who's spent his life practicing medicine. I'm as unconventional as they come." She laughs at that, disbelief evident in the breathy sound. "In all that time I had never met anyone with whom I wanted to spend my life with and I feared it was my curse to spend it alone. But then I met you, Esme, and I cannot imagine this existence without you. I love you beyond what words can say and if my place is to be here forever, then I pray that it is with you by my side, as my wife."

He pulls the ring from his pocket and she glances down briefly, to rose-gold and intricately laid diamond, registering that this is really happening, before meeting his eyes once more.

Her brilliant smile must be answer enough, because he lets out a slow breath that sounds like relief, before grinning widely at her. "Is that a yes?" he says.

"Of course."

He slides the ring onto her finger, capturing her hand in his, bringing it to his lips. He presses kisses along her fingers, across her knuckles, and she's in his arms in an instant.

"Is this real?" she murmurs against him, resting her forehead against his own, letting the soft tufts of his hair slither through her fingers. "Tell me so," she pleads.

"It is real, my love. As real as anything has ever been in my life."

"Did she say yes then?" Edward wonders as he enters the house later that evening. Carlisle and Esme sit wrapped up on the sofa, a book held between them, though they haven't gotten much reading done as far as Esme's concerned.

She straightens up at his question, unable to move very far because of Carlisle's arm around her waist. As she thinks of it, his fingers tighten against her hip, holding her that much closer. "You knew?" she accuses of Edward, leaning back into the crook of Carlisle's arm.

"I had an inkling," Edward confesses. "But to be honest, I don't think even Carlisle knew he was going to propose today. He's been carrying that ring around for months."

"You have?" Esme asks, looking surprised.

Carlisle nods. "I was waiting for the right moment."

And with one look in his eyes she understands. He was not waiting for romance or candles or music. He was waiting for her. For her to be ready. To tell him she was ready. Oh my, she thinks, Mrs. Esme Cullen. Her chest feels giddy at the thought, but so very ready.