Edward Cullen had mastered control.
Control of thirst.
Control of speed.
Control of strength.
Control of facial expressions during awkward human small talk.
What he had not mastered—
Was impulse honking.
He stood beside his car in the Swan driveway, utterly still, hands folded behind his back now like he was attending his own execution.
The morning in Forks was its usual gloomy grey. No sunlight. No dramatic lighting. Just damp air and quiet houses.
Too quiet.
Edward's golden eyes moved slowly, carefully, scanning the street.
Curtains? Still.
Driveways? Empty.
No visible neighbors.
No dogs.
No joggers.
No elderly woman watering plants while silently judging him.
Good.
Very good.
Perhaps—
Perhaps no one had witnessed it.
Perhaps the only people who heard it were inside the house.
Inside.
Bella.
Amara.
Edward's jaw tightened slightly.
Bella definitely heard it.
There was no possible way she didn't.
Amara had not exactly whispered her threats.
He suppressed a sigh.
He couldn't hear Bella's thoughts.
He had no idea what she was thinking right now.
Was she embarrassed?
Amused?
Mortified?
Reconsidering her entire life?
He didn't know.
And that lack of knowledge was deeply unsettling.
He shifted slightly.
Why did I honk?
The question had not stopped repeating.
Why?
He could have waited.
He could have texted.
He could have walked to the door like a civilized immortal.
But no.
He had chosen violence.
Through sound.
And even worse—
He had not honked once.
No.
That would have been forgivable.
He had honked three times.
Three.
The first was unnecessary.
The second was bold.
The third was arrogance.
Edward closed his eyes briefly.
Why did I have time to honk three times?
What possessed him?
Impatience?
Ego?
Temporary insanity?
He opened his eyes again and looked around once more, slower this time.
Still no one.
Good.
But that didn't mean no one had heard.
Forks was small.
Sound traveled.
Reputation traveled faster.
He inhaled slowly.
If Emmett heard about this—
No.
No.
He did not even want to imagine it.
Emmett would laugh.
Not just laugh.
He would reenact.
He would absolutely imitate Amara's voice at full volume.
He would lean against a wall and shout, "YOU'LL START BEEPING WHEN YOU BLINK," every time Edward entered a room.
Jasper would attempt to remain composed.
He would fail.
Rosalie would raise a single elegant eyebrow.
Alice—
Edward went very still.
Alice.
If she saw this—
It was already over.
She would not even need to exaggerate.
Reality was humiliating enough.
He stared at the hood of his car.
He felt… tired.
Not physically.
He did not experience physical fatigue.
But emotionally?
Exhausted.
Exhausted for his future self.
Because Amara would not forget this.
She was not the type to forget.
She was the type to remember.
To wait.
To strike back unexpectedly.
Perhaps she would replace his ringtone with a car horn.
Perhaps she would randomly make beeping noises whenever he blinked.
Perhaps she would bring it up at dinner.
In front of everyone.
Casually.
"Oh Edward, do you need me to honk before you speak?"
He almost winced.
He straightened abruptly.
No.
He would not spiral.
He was over a century old.
He had survived wars.
He could survive one loud human.
But then—
Lucien.
Edward's expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
He refused to think about that too much.
He absolutely refused to imagine what Lucien might say.
No.
He would deal with that when it came.
One disaster at a time.
He glanced toward the house again.
Bella still hadn't come out.
Which meant...
She absolutely heard everything and was embarrassed herself and on his behalf.
And was now deciding how to behave.
Would she pretend nothing happened?
Would she apologize on Amara's behalf?
Would she—
Edward stiffened.
What if she was laughing?
Inside.
Right now.
Edward Cullen, reduced to neighborhood entertainment before 7 AM.
He looked around again.
Still no witnesses.
Still no visible judgment.
But the silence felt heavy.
Like the entire street knew.
Like the trees knew.
Like the air itself was holding in laughter.
He ran a hand slowly through his hair.
A rare gesture.
Uncharacteristically human.
"…Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath.
Three honks.
Three.
What kind of immortal honks three times?
He straightened again as the front door clicked faintly.
Movement.
Edward instantly restored full composure.
Back straight.
Expression neutral.
Embarrassment buried six feet underground.
But internally?
He was preparing.
For awkward silence.
For Bella's careful tone.
For the long, eternal consequences of—
The Honk.
And somewhere deep inside, Edward Cullen made a solemn vow:
He would never honk in this driveway again.
Not once.
Not twice.
Not even accidentally.
Because immortality was long.
But humiliation?
Humiliation was longer.
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