⋆·˚ ༘ * EDWARD CULLEN HEADCANONS 𐚁̸.ᐟ
𐙚 being in a relationship with edward
edward fell in love with you slowly. not all at once like the stories say, but painfully, excruciatingly slow.
over long looks and accidental touches, over the way you smiled without knowing what you did to him.
he tried to stay away. of course he did. but every time you said his name? he unraveled a little more.
“you shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“like you really see me… and you still want to stay.”
gentle, overwhelming protectiveness.
he’s always quietly placing himself between you and anything remotely dangerous, even if it’s just a fast-moving car in the school parking lot or someone walking too close to you on the sidewalk.
his hand will ghost over your lower back or hover near yours, ready to pull you close. you’re never out of his reach.
“i know I’m being ridiculous,” he’ll whisper, forehead pressed to yours, “but i’d rather be overprotective than ever risk losing you.”
he memorizes everything about you.
the sound of your footsteps. the way you breathe when you’re nervous. the rhythm of your heartbeat when you’re happy, and when you’re lying.
he knows the titles off your favorite books and the way you stir your tea without looking.
he notices it all and it makes him impossibly soft.
“that sweater,” he murmurs one day, eyes on your collar, “you wore it the first time you let me hold your hand.”
he writes you lullabies on the piano.
there’s one piece he only plays when you’re in the room. you don’t realize it’s yours until he finally admits it one rainy evening, fingers lingering on the keys.
“i wrote it the night i realized i couldn’t imagine eternity without you.”
if you’re his bloodsinger? oh god.
it’s unbearable at first. he’s a wreck.
he disappears from school. then he comes back, tense and haunted, trying to talk himself out of needing you. but it only makes him more obsessive.
he doesn’t trust himself, and yet he’s drawn to you like nothing else.
“you don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, voice raw. “i’d burn the whole world down just to keep you safe. that’s not love. it’s something far more dangerous.”
he gets jealous… and hates himself for it.
he’s old-fashioned, so he won’t say anything right away, but if someone flirts with you, it shows. his jaw tenses. his posture goes rigid.
and if you so much as laugh at another guy’s joke?
“was he… important to you?” he’ll ask later, eyes lowered.
you have to take his face in your hands and promise there’s no one else you’d rather have eternally holding you in the moonlight.
he’s always giving you his coat.
even when it’s not that cold. even when you have a jacket. he just likes seeing you in it. and the way it hangs off your shoulders? yeah. he’s not immune.
“i could’ve worn my own, you know.”
“i know,” he says, barely hiding a smile. “but mine looks better on you.”
he absolutely struggles with texting.
this man is 100+ years old. texting is not his thing. he’s formal and overly proper. no abbreviations. full punctuation. and he apologizes for sending “too many messages” even if it’s only two.
edward: “i miss you more than language can express. eternally yours, —e.”
he loves the sound of your heartbeat when you sleep.
edward doesn’t sleep, but he’ll sit beside your bed every night, listening to the steady rhythm of your heart like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world. if you ever wake up and catch him?
“don’t be afraid,” he whispers. “i just needed to be close to you.”
he’s terrified of hurting you.
even after you’ve been together for a while, that fear never fully fades.
he’s constantly restraining himself. always making sure you’re okay, pulling back when you get too close, kissing you with trembling reverence like he’s scared to want you too much.
“you don’t understand what it takes for me to hold you like this and not lose control.”
you take walks together at night, his favorite time.
he listens as you talk, asking you soft questions, stopping only to kiss your knuckles or tuck a flower behind your ear.
he’s absolutely in love with the way you talk about human things like stargazing and campfires and hot chocolate like they’re sacred.
“you make this world feel so… alive,” he tells you one night. “even to me.”
eventually, he starts dropping hints about forever. eternity. a future that doesn’t end.
he’s scared of what it means, scared of what you’d lose… but his voice nearly breaks when he imagines a life without you.
“i’ve lived a hundred years without you,” he says, brushing your hair from your face. “i’m begging you, don’t ask me to do it again.”
