Edward Cullen x Reader~𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒔

ꑄꂵ꒐꒒ꏂꐞ ꄟꋬꏳꏂ

𝑯𝒆𝒚, 𝑷𝒖𝒎𝒑𝒌𝒊𝒏. The message showed up with the light buzz of your phone beside your computer. You checked the time as you lifted up your phone as it read 3 am. You sighed before you shut the lid of your computer, making sure you carefully saved the draft on Wattpad before all your work was lost. 

You opened up the messages, as the sender was unknown, and you even questioned texting back, but the number receiving was one of works. 

𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔?  You texted back and not even a second later the next message appeared. 

𝑬𝒅𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒏.  

Your heart skipped a beat, as you stared at the brightened screen in the pitch black, your fingers ached to type, but there were frozen. 

𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎?  

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.  

𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆, 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖? 

𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 :) 

Edward Cullen used a smiley face. 

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕, 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓? It was a joke, but there was no text back. 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒑?

𝑪𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝑺𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑.  That was all he said for his explanation before he texted again. 𝑾𝒉𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒖𝒑?

𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈.

 𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕. 

 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕. 

 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆, 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑰𝒔 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒚/𝒏. 

You blushed as you jumped over to your bed, as you rolled over for comment only to land on your stomach, your eyes staring into the screen of the phone, as you could almost feel his breath on your cheek. 

𝑨𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔?

 𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒔 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓, 𝒑𝒖𝒎𝒑𝒌𝒊𝒏 

 𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒑𝒖𝒎𝒑𝒌𝒊𝒏 

 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒍. 

𝑺𝒚𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒂 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒚 𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 1８４2, 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒐𝒇𝒇. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒔, 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒆𝒚𝒔. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒂𝒚, 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅, 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅, 𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒇 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒐 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒕, 𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒇 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉. 𝑻𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒆, 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒈𝒐 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍.