The cottage garden is bathed in the golden hush of late afternoon. Renesmee's laughter carries through the warm breeze as you chase her through the flowers, letting her win every now and then just to hear that delighted little squeal. She tackles you, soft and fast, tiny hands gripping your fingers as you both collapse into the grass, tangled in sunlight and petals. Her heartbeat drums fast and bright beneath her skin—a rhythm so alive it tugs at something deep inside you. Not thirst. Not hunger. Love.

You don't notice the figures watching from the porch at first. Rosalie stands tall and graceful, her golden curls glowing like they're catching fire in the sun. Her arms are folded, but her face is soft, almost reverent as she watches you tickle Renesmee and fall back laughing. Emmett is beside her, one arm looped lazily around her waist, his other hand lifting to wave when you glance over. His grin is wide and proud—like you just bench-pressed a semi truck for fun. Which, to be fair, you probably could.

They don't speak at first. They just watch. And love you. Because this is what they wanted. What Rosalie once thought she'd never have—a family, laughter, softness. And what Emmett always dreamed of—love that never runs out, that fills rooms and hearts and centuries. You see them, and your heart does something funny. That ache of eternity. That quiet vow you all made the first night you realized it wasn't just one of them you loved—it was both. It had always been both.