Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight or any of its characters—those belong to Stephenie Meyer. This is purely a fan-made work created out of love for the series and a desire to explore Edward and Renesmee's story in greater depth. All rights to the original content remain with the author.

This fanfic dives into something I've always felt was missing from Breaking Dawn: Edward and Renesmee's story, especially considering Edward once didn't want her. Let's face it—there's a lot of emotional ground to cover there, and I'm here to explore how Edward can rebuild that precious bond with his little girl (because we all know he's a sucker for her).

This first chapter sets the stage, showing the tender, sometimes chaotic dynamic between Edward and Renesmee while establishing their personalities and relationship before Rosalie's fateful interaction throws a wrench into everything.

For the sake of storytelling (and my sanity), I've made two adjustments:

1. Renesmee ages normally but is a little genius for her age. Why? Because writing toddlers who grow at vampire speed makes everything unnecessarily complicated.

2. Jacob didn't imprint on Renesmee. Yeah… no. I'm not a fan of that plotline, and since this is my fic, Jacob's crush-on-my-daughter energy has been removed. You're welcome.

P.S. I'm still working on Evermore, and a new chapter is just around the corner. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this mix of fluff, angst, and Edward proving his worth as a dad. Let's get started!

I'm not entirely certain what first alerted me to the impending disaster: was it the silence in the other room, or the faint little flicker of my daughter's mind whispering with the colors of bright blue, emerald green, and a mischievous swirl of sunshine-yellow? Normally, I relish the quiet. With a house full of vampires—each endowed with inhuman swiftness, and some with enhanced senses—there's usually always movement, or the subtle shifting of minds. But silence in the presence of a three-year-old, particularly my three-year-old Renesmee, usually does not bode well.

Bella had gone to join Alice for the afternoon, something about last-minute checks for an upcoming get-together. Alice, of course, tossed me a knowing smile, one of those that predicted potential chaos in the day's near future. Meanwhile, Bella, playful but also slightly concerned, reminded me to keep a close watch on our daughter's antics. Renesmee Carlie Cullen—Nessie for short—could be a bundle of pure sunshine or a tiny firecracker depending on where her creativity took her.

At just three years old, she's already exceptionally sharp. She outgrows most toddlers not only physically and intellectually, but in wits as well. She understands more than she lets on, and she is rarely still. Her hair is a delicate bronze, reminiscent of my own, though shining in a more mellow hue, and her features hold the same shape as mine—though softened and made angelic by her childlike innocence. Or perhaps I should say her near-innocence, because she can also be cunning when she sets her mind to it, as Bella and I have discovered time and again.

This afternoon, I'd left Nessie in the living room to paint. It was a very intentional choice. She had a tiny canvas, no larger than the size of an index card, and a small set of non-toxic paints. She'd insisted on painting a 'masterpiece'—her word, not mine—which I encouraged wholeheartedly. I caught glimpses of her mental images: swirling skies, a herd of horses, a field of flowers she might try to replicate. She was so immersed in those images that I felt assured she would stay quietly in one spot long enough for me to slip into the kitchen and make her a sandwich. If anything went awry, I'd hear it or sense it through her mind quickly enough.

I should have reminded myself that Nessie, while bright and endearing, is also the same child who once tried to braid our carpet fibers because she thought they needed "styling." Simply leaving her with paint, even if it was meant for children, should have set off an alarm in my head. But no—my fatherly trust momentarily overshadowed caution. So I stepped away, set the bread out, turkey, cheese, and a bit of mayonnaise, all the while glancing over my shoulder just to confirm she was still there. The wall cut off most of my view, but I could sense the tranquil hum of her mind. She was painting… definitely painting… so of course, I assumed everything was fine.

I finished preparing her sandwich and placed it carefully on a small plate, slicing off the crust for her just the way she liked it. On my way back to the living room, I didn't immediately see her, which was the first sign that something was amiss. Nessie's mind still whispered images of painting, but they had grown bigger, more triumphant, and somehow a little more sprawling in scope than a tiny canvas would allow. I turned the corner to find her perched in front of the fireplace, her paintbrush in hand, happily painting bright streaks of pink and green all over the wall. My normally pristine white wall close to the hearth was covered, halfway up, in swirling shapes. Worse yet, she appeared to be eyeing the black interior of the fireplace itself, as if it, too, needed a fresh burst of color.

"Nessie!" I gasped, dread and incredulity tangling in my voice. I nearly dropped her plate. For the briefest instant, she looked up at me with big, guileless eyes. Then she gave me a wide grin. She didn't even glance down at the paint stains trailing along her arms, the splotches of color on her little shirt, or the surprising amount of paint that had found its way into her bronze curls.

She said, "Hi, Daddy. I'm doing a mural."

"A… a mural?" I repeated, my mind scrambling. It was times like these I missed Bella's presence, or even Esme's calm guidance. Typically, I can handle anything, but something about my three-year-old painting our wall from top to bottom had me unprepared. "Nessie, sweetheart, walls are not for painting."

"But it's so big." She flashed me a sweet, beguiling smile. "And I need more room for my masterpiece. My canvas was too little." A small pout formed on her lips as she gazed over at the scrunched-up piece of cardstock that once was her designated canvas. She'd apparently abandoned it for bigger possibilities.

I stepped forward, mindful not to crush the plate in my hand. "That's… you can't… oh, Renesmee," I breathed, fighting between exasperation, amusement, and that inevitable fatherly pride in her creativity. I had to set boundaries, though. Even so, my words stumbled all over themselves. "You're not supposed to paint on the walls. The paint doesn't come off easily."

At that, she tilted her head and looked at me curiously. "But I'm making it pretty. Look, Daddy, it's a garden with flowers and… maybe a horse." She turned around, pointing to a wobbly shape that might be an attempt at an animal. It was done in bright splotches of purple, but her mental image showed me clearly that she intended for it to be a horse. She truly thought she was beautifying the house.

I set the sandwich on a nearby end table, out of the way of her painting supplies, and took a breath. "Nessie," I started again more firmly. "We can get you a bigger canvas. Several canvases, if you want. But this is not something we can keep on the wall. Your mom is going to be—" I hesitated, uncertain if Bella would be furious or if she'd find it endearing. Possibly both. "She's going to be surprised."

Nessie's eyes flickered with that cunning brightness I'd come to recognize, the one that often heralded persuasive arguments from her. "But you'll like it, Daddy, when I'm done. You always said you like my paintings." She battered her eyelashes. "Don't you like it?"

I caught the faint stirrings of her mind, trying to glean from me how I truly felt about her mural. She could sense my conflicting emotions, and in typical Renesmee fashion, she tried to shape the scenario to her advantage. "I do… like it," I admitted carefully. And I did—her color choices and shapes were undeniably cheerful. "But you can't paint on the wall. It's not just our house; it belongs to all of us—Carlisle, Esme, Emmett, Rosalie, Alice, Jasper. Everyone shares this place. We can't change things without asking."

She frowned in that heartbreakingly adorable way. "Do I have to stop?"

"Yes," I said, with a firmness that made her pout deepen. Then I noticed she was inching closer to the fireplace itself, where the coals and ash had been long dormant. Still, nothing about a toddler climbing inside the fireplace, painted or not, boded well for the safety of our walls or her clothes or her hair—or her dignity. "Nessie, don't even think about climbing in there."

She poked at the firebox's rim with the tip of her tiny paintbrush. "Why not? It's all dirty. I can fix it and make it pretty too."

I moved swiftly, gently lifting her up before she could scramble inside. She let out a frustrated squeak, her arms flailing in protest and inadvertently smacking green paint across my shirt. "Nessie," I said with a bite of sternness. "Stop." Carefully, I took the brush from her hand. She stiffened at first, but once the brush was out of reach, she slumped, her lower lip trembling in a dangerously adorable way.

For a moment, I thought we might have a meltdown on our hands. Her eyes misted as though tears could form, and the bright swirl of her thoughts quivered with disappointment. "But I'm not finished yet," she whispered. "It's s'pposed to be a castle over here." She pointed again to the blackened interior.

"No," I replied, though I made sure my voice was gentler now. "The fireplace is definitely off-limits. Painting is only allowed on paper or canvas, nowhere else." I guided her away from the wall, noting how tall the mural extended. Just how she managed to get so high up with those little arms baffled me—I suspected she'd climbed onto the hearth and reached upward with her brush. "We need to get you cleaned up." I gingerly held her torso, trying to keep the paint off me, which was futile. The damage was done. My shirt, the wall—both equally decorated now.

In the next moment, I heard footsteps and a burst of laughter from behind us. Emmett, of course. He must have caught the spectacle from the other side of the room. I glanced over my shoulder to see him leaning against the doorway, grinning from ear to ear. "Well, well, well," he chortled, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. "What do we have here? Edward, you do know that no matter how many centuries you live, you'll still be a teenager trying to father a toddler." He let out a renewed peel of laughter. "You look ridiculous right now."

"Hello, Emmett," I said drily, trying my best to remain calm while Nessie wriggled in my arms. "I'm handling it."

He strolled into the room with a swagger. "Oh, I can see that. Looks like your little artist decided to practice on the walls. Honestly, it's an improvement. A bit of color in this corner never hurt anybody." His eyes sparkled with amusement as he surveyed the disarray: the paint splotches, the messy brushes, and me with a toddler in my arms who was trying to break free. "But man, what a sight! A perpetually seventeen-year-old father scolding a child for painting a wall. The irony is priceless."

I shot him a glare, but it was half-hearted. "Emmett," I warned.

"Uh-oh," he teased, putting his hands up. "I better watch out, or Dad here will ground me." He reached out and poked a finger gently at Nessie's cheek. "You are one sneaky little imp, you know that?" he said affectionately. Nessie half-squirmed and half-giggled as she tried to hide her face against my chest.

"It's not sneaky," she insisted, though her giggle betrayed her. "It's art."

"Of course it is," Emmett said with a broad grin. Then he looked back at me, shrugging. "Let the kid paint. Makes for a nice change of scenery."

I groaned, readjusting Nessie in my arms. She was definitely done with being restrained. "Emmett, you're not helping."

"Nah, I'd say I'm helping by boosting morale." He chucked me lightly on the shoulder. "Listen, just take her outside with a giant poster board or something next time. Problem solved. Or hey, put up some big boards along the wall and let her go to town if it's so important." He waggled his eyebrows. "Though I suspect Bella might have something to say when she sees her newly reimagined living room."

At the mention of Bella, I felt a tiny pang of dread. I knew Bella well enough to guess that she wouldn't be furious, but she would likely stare in disbelief at the smudges of paint. She'd probably ask me how on earth I let that happen in the short time she was gone. Still, I hoped she wouldn't be too upset, considering how endearing Nessie's attempt at a 'masterpiece' was. At the very least, I'd hear about it in a teasing manner for the next decade, especially from Emmett.

I pressed my lips together and looked down at Nessie, who had gone quiet again. She peered up at me, her big eyes still brimming with that cunning light. She was playing the heartbreak card—her eyebrows drawn together, her lower lip slightly out. Then she placed a small, paint-stained hand on my cheek. In my mind, I saw a flash of her mural as she envisioned it complete: bright pink flowers around the fireplace, swirling vines, and a fairytale-like horse-lion hybrid that I suppose existed only in her imagination. She sent me a gentle wave of affection, along with a plea. It made my heart twinge. I loved her so fiercely.

Feeling my resolve slipping, I cleared my throat and said quietly, "I know you wanted to finish, but that's not how this works, Nessie. The house needs to stay clean. We can't just paint the walls without asking. Besides, it's going to be a huge mess for all of us to fix."

She only nuzzled closer to me, as if that might dismantle my lecture. "You could fix it, Daddy, if it's that big of a problem," she said. "Then I can still keep some of it."

Emmett smirked, obviously enjoying the show. "She has you there. Mr. Perfect, can't you just run to the store for a bucket of paint and do some home improvement?" he teased, crossing his arms.

"That's not the point," I sighed.

Nessie wrapped both arms around my neck. "Don't be mad at me," she murmured, sounding earnest yet knowing exactly what she was doing. "Please? I wanted it to be pretty."

I shut my eyes for a second, overwhelmed by that rush of love and exasperation that came with fatherhood. Then I brushed my hand over her painted curls, deciding my next move. "I'm not angry," I said slowly. "I'm just a little disappointed that you didn't ask for permission first, or tell me you wanted a bigger space. If we talk things through, we can find a way to do it properly." I glanced up at the swirling shapes on the wall. "But for now, we have to clean this up. Do you understand?"

She nodded, though it wasn't exactly enthusiastic. "Will you help me?" she asked, blinking. "I can wipe the walls, but maybe you can make it white again."

Emmett poked at the rainbow splotches near the mantel. "Might take more than a wipe, short stuff."

I shot him a silencing glare before turning my attention back to my daughter. "Yes, we'll fix it. But you have to promise me: no more painting on the house without asking. If you want to do murals, we can make a special place for it. All right?"

She nodded solemnly, her eyes wide, and I could feel her sincerity in that moment. Renesmee might be mischievous, but she doesn't lie. She's just too clever for her own good. "Okay, Daddy." A pause, then an impish little smile. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Carefully, I lowered her to the floor, only to realize that we'd both acquired enough paint to color a fair portion of the furniture if we weren't careful. "First things first, we need to get you washed. You have paint all over you."

She looked down at her arms and giggled. "I look like a rainbow."

"Well, half a rainbow," Emmett corrected with a grin, pointing at the streaks of color. "But hey, next time, invite me. I'll do the top half of the wall if you want."

His attempt at humor earned him another glare from me, to which he merely shrugged. "Come on, lighten up. It's good practice for teenage years. Just imagine what she'll do when she's actually old enough to break rules on purpose."

I resisted the urge to sigh dramatically. Instead, I focused on corralling my daughter out of the living room and toward the nearest bathroom. Emmett, still snickering, wandered off in search of a camera or, more likely, to share the news with the rest of the family. I had half a mind to run after him, but that would mean letting a paint-covered toddler run freely through the house, and I was not about to tempt fate any further.

In the bathroom, I helped Nessie onto a stool by the sink. She stuck her little arms out for me to clean first, wincing slightly when the cold water streamed across her skin. "Warm it up, Daddy," she demanded, so I adjusted the faucet accordingly. Then I carefully peeled off her paint-splattered shirt and turned on the shower to a gentle spray. She hopped under without complaint, letting the water rinse her arms, face, and hair. The vibrant swirls of paint ran off in rivulets, circling the drain.

I stood there, shirt ruined, water dripping on my shoes, and tried not to laugh. She looked so earnest about the entire process—like she'd truly believed she was beautifying our living room for everyone's benefit. And maybe, in her own way, she was. She's a bright child, filled with light and creativity. Admittedly, if it were on an actual canvas, I'd love her painting. I still did, minus the location.

"Sorry," she said again quietly as I helped rinse her hair. "I thought you'd like it. You and Mommy."

I leaned in and pressed a light kiss to the top of her wet curls. "We do like your art, sweetheart. We just need to keep it in the right place, that's all."

She nodded solemnly, her expression thoughtful. Then she toyed with the water spray, giggling as she wiggled her fingers under the stream. "I won't do it again," she promised. Then she brightened, her eyes sparkling with excitement as a new idea formed in her thoughts. "Unless we talk about it first and you say yes. Like in my room or in a big backyard painting place?"

I smiled, turning off the shower and reaching for a soft towel. "Yes, exactly. We'll find something that works for everybody. Now let's get you dried off, and then you can eat your sandwich, which has been waiting patiently in the other room."

She let me wrap her in the towel, and as I lifted her out of the shower, she wrapped her warm arms around my neck. Despite the fiasco, I felt a wave of tenderness swell in my chest. Being a father, especially a father to Renesmee, was one of the most humbling experiences I'd ever faced. I'd lived for more than a century, seen human nature in all its forms, and yet nothing prepared me for the daily adventures—sometimes messy, sometimes comical—of raising a half-vampire, half-human daughter.

In the aftermath, I knew I'd have to face Emmett's teasing and Bella's inevitable mixture of shock and amusement. I'd likely spend the rest of the day cleaning up the wall, scrubbing off the paint, making sure there wasn't a single color-splotch left around the fireplace. But as Nessie nestled her head on my shoulder, a final swirl of affection in her mind telling me she was content, I couldn't help but think that every bit of chaos was worth it. Messy walls and all, she filled the house—and my once quiet, solitary existence—with a vibrancy I hadn't known I was missing.

I carried her out of the bathroom, and we wandered back toward the living room. She looked at the half-finished mural with regret for a moment, but when I set her down to eat her sandwich, she turned those big brown eyes toward me and reminded me of a fact I already knew: "I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, sweetheart," I replied, kneeling beside her and pressing a kiss to her cheek. "And we'll always make room for your masterpieces." I offered a wry grin. "Just not on the wall."

She laughed, and even though there was a smudge of teal paint still clinging to her ear, I thought she looked absolutely perfect. I watched her take a bite of her sandwich, carefree and bright. Somewhere in the distance, I heard Emmett's muffled snickers and the faint murmur of Carlisle inquiring what had happened this time. It occurred to me that the entire family would soon gather to see the spectacle. But I found that I didn't mind. At least they'd see exactly how lively and imaginative our daughter could be. It was, after all, part of her charm. And as I slipped an arm around her, ignoring the ruined shirt and the laughter coming from the hallway, I knew it was a day none of us would soon forget.

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