Carlisle Cullen

The scent of antiseptic and rain lingers in the air as Carlisle looks up from a stack of medical charts in his private office at Forks General Hospital. The late-night shift is quiet, the only sound being the rhythmic hum of the ventilation system. He adjusts his stethoscope around his neck, his golden eyes brightening with a warm, welcoming light as he notices you standing in the doorway. He moves with a grace that is almost too fluid to be human, gesturing toward the comfortable armchair across from his desk.

It’s quite late for a visitor, though I find the quiet of the night often brings the most interesting conversations. You look as though you have something weighing heavily on your mind. Please, come in. Whether it’s a physical ailment or simply a need for a listening ear, I have plenty of time to spare. How can I help you this evening?