Gay Space Cowduck

dentist

distillery

docks

dovecot

dyer

embassy

farmer's market

fighting pit

fishmonger

fortune teller

gallows

gatehouse

general store

graveyard

greenhouses

guard post

guildhall

gymnasium

haberdashery

haunted house

hedge maze

herbalist

hospice

hospital

house for sale

inn

jail

jeweller

kindergarten

leatherworker

library

locksmith

mail courier

manor house

market

mayor's house

monastery

morgue

museum

music shop

observatory

orchard

orphanage

outhouse

paper maker

pawnshop

pet shop

potion shop

potter

printmaker

quest board

residence

restricted zone

sawmill

school

scribe

sewer entrance

sheriff's office

shrine

silversmith

spa

speakeasy

spice merchant

sports stadium

stables

street market

tailor

tannery

tavern

tax collector

tea house

temple

textile shop

theatre

thieves guild

thrift store

tinker's workshop

town crier post

town square

townhall

toy store

trinket shop

warehouse

watchtower

water mill

weaver

well

windmill

wishing well

It starts innocently enough.

You’re in the Bridgerton garden, tucked beneath a flowering tree, your legs stretched out on the grass, an old book opened across your lap. The sun is gentle this afternoon, soft on your skin, and the quiet hum of bees in the distance adds to the tranquility. You don’t even hear her coming until there’s a dramatic thud beside you and a familiar groan of impatience.

“They sent fruit,” Eloise declares, as though this is the greatest injustice of the day. She tosses a tangerine into your lap with theatrical disdain.

You glance at the fruit, then at her. Her bonnet is askew, cheeks flushed from wherever she’s come rushing in from. “Is it meant to symbolize fertility or something else even more scandalous?”

“If it is, I’ll never eat another,” she retorts with a scoff.

And yet, a beat later, she’s peeling it with swift fingers. She works quickly but methodically, the smell of orange juice releasing into the air, a sharp sweetness that clings to you. Her nails dig into the rind, fingers stained and sticky, but she doesn’t complain. Instead, she begins to segment the fruit, turning each quarter over with care.

When she offers you the neatest slice (not the first, not the last, but the best one) you blink in surprise. But you take it. Your fingers brush. Neither of you pulls away.

You both look down at the fruit in your hands like it's suddenly taken on a new meaning.

No one says a word.

Then, after that, it becomes a thing.

A strange sort of ritual that repeats without explanation. A silent offering between chapters of conversation or shared glances. Sometimes it’s her pressing a tangerine into your hand mid-walk, with a wink and no context. Other times, it’s left waiting on your windowsill, perfectly round, with a note beside it that simply reads, In case you missed me.

No one else seems to notice. Or if they do, they don’t ask. Not Daphne, who raises an eyebrow once before moving on. Not Penelope, who likely suspects everything but wisely says nothing.

It becomes comfort. It becomes habit.

You begin to associate the smell of oranges with her laugh, with her skirts brushing against yours, with the sound of her boots running through the halls as she hunts you down to share some ridiculous bit of gossip. It follows you into your dreams, into the creases of your pillow, into the way your heart quickens when she sits too close.

It’s silly, of course. It’s just fruit.

But it’s never just fruit when it comes from her.

And as the days slide into weeks, and spring slips lazily into summer, you begin to wonder if you’ve ever shared something so small that felt so impossibly big.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It rains for hours.

The kind of rain that softens the world around you, turning the estate into a haze of grey. Thunder rolls lazily in the distance, and the windows fog from the warmth inside. You’re glad you made it to the Bridgerton house before the rain descended. You’ve resigned yourself to a slow day, curled up on the chaise with a fresh book in hand, the scent of old paper and damp leaves drifting in through the cracked window.

Eloise appears with all the force of a minor storm. She slams the door behind her, kicks off her boots, and flops, quite literally, beside you.

“There’s nothing to do,” she announces, dramatically. “Mother has commandeered the parlour, Colin’s snoring in the library, and someone,” she glances sideways at you, “has been hiding in here like a ghost.”

“I’m reading,” you reply, not looking up.

She ignores you. Or rather, she ignores your protests. Instead, she scoots close, peering over your shoulder at the page. Her chin nearly rests against your shoulder, and you can feel her breath on your collarbone, warm and steady.

“You always smell like oranges now,” you murmur, not entirely teasing. "I like it."

She grins, and without missing a beat: “You'll never eat an orange without thinking of me." Her breath falters momentarily, "Not that you need any help, you're always thinking of me, no?"

You choke, on your breath, on the weight of that sentence, and she just laughs, full and delighted.

She doesn’t move away.

Instead, she reaches up, fingers brushing a stray curl from your forehead and tucking it carefully behind your ear. Her touch is casual, but her fingers linger, just long enough for your heart to betray you.

“Sticky fingers,” she whispers. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know if she’s talking about the citrus, or the closeness, or the way she keeps looking at you like she’s memorising something. Maybe all of it.

You shake your head. A quiet gesture. But the meaning is loud in your chest.

Outside, the rain continues. Inside, time slows.

She reaches into her skirt pocket, and, as if by magic, produces another tangerine. “You know,” she says idly, “if I were a different sort of girl, I’d make a grand romantic gesture out of this. Perhaps declare that each fruit is a token of my undying devotion.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what sort of girl are you?”

She shrugs, smiling faintly. “The kind who prefers slow rituals. Quiet things. The kind who peels fruit on rainy days and hopes you’ll let her stay close.”

You don’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, you rest your cheek lightly against her shoulder.

She peels the tangerine in slow, curling spirals, the scent of citrus curling around you like a secret. One by one, she offers you slices, fingertips brushing your lips, touch feather-light, like punctuation to everything unsaid.

You eat each one.

You don’t look away.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s a Bridgerton garden party, the kind with too many guests and not nearly enough places to hide. The lawn is a sea of pastels and parasols, laughter bubbling from corners, children darting between grown-up conversations.

You’re standing near the edge of it all, holding a glass of lemonade and pretending to admire the rosebushes. It’s easier than weaving through endless introductions or enduring yet another matchmaking attempt from a well-meaning aunt.

Then he appears. A young gentleman. He’s polished, affable, with the kind of smile that suggests he’s memorised it in a mirror.

“You looked like you could use company,” he says smoothly.

You raise a brow. “Do I?”

He chuckles. “Only because I felt the same.”

To his credit, he’s charming in that easy, practiced way. He talks about music and travel, leans in just a bit when he laughs at your jokes. You’re still half-listening when a sudden weight hits your side, not hard, but deliberate.

Eloise.

She appears beside you like a thunderclap in human form, eyes narrowed and expression coolly unimpressed.

“Hello,” she says flatly to the gentleman. Then, to you, “You’ve been terribly hard to find.”

“I’ve been standing in the same place for fifteen minutes,” you say mildly.

“Precisely. Who lingers by rosebushes when there’s fresh lemonade and scandal near the terrace?”

The man attempts to recover the conversation. “Miss Bridgerton, is it? I was just telling your friend here about my travels-"

Eloise cuts in, sweetly venomous. “How lovely. Did your tailor travel with you? That cravat looks freshly traumatised.”

You nearly spit out your drink. The gentleman blinks, excuses himself with a stiff nod, and walks off with as much dignity as he can salvage.

Silence stretches between you and Eloise. Then, “Jealous?” you ask, teasing, curious.

Her brows lift. “Don’t be absurd.”

You turn to face her fully. “He was just being polite.”

“He was being dreary, and your time is far too precious for tedium,” she replies, arms crossed.

“You’re protective now?”

“I’m always protective. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”

Before you can respond, something small and firm hits your chest. You glance down.

She’s already turning to go, satisfied and smug. “You forgot this,” she calls over her shoulder. A tangerine is rolling softly away.

You pick it up, cradling it like a secret. It smells like her, bright and defiant.

Later, you’ll find it in your pocket still, slightly bruised from the day. You won’t be able to bring yourself to eat it. Not because you don’t want it, but because some part of you is waiting for her to peel it for you.

Because somehow, the ritual is only complete when it’s hers to give.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s late and Eloise sits beside you on the blanket, legs tucked to the side, skirts rumpled with careless grace.

Neither of you speak at first. The silence is comfortable, tinged with the familiar scent of citrus that you have grown to expect, and love.

Eloise pulls a tangerine from the pocket of her dress. She holds it up between you like a peace offering, like a question. You nod once.

But this time, she doesn’t peel it quickly, doesn’t chatter while doing so. Her fingers are slower, more thoughtful. She works the skin off in long, deliberate spirals, the scent of it rising between you like something ancient and sweet.

You watch her, the way her brow furrows slightly in concentration, the way she separates the fruit into even quarters as always but with uncharacteristic gentleness.

Then, instead of placing one in your palm as usual, she turns to you, her eyes searching your face, slowing down.

She gently lifts the piece, soft, sticky, perfect, against your lips.

You freeze.

Her hand pauses there, fingers grazing your cheek now, breath catching like she’s just realized what she’s done, or what she’s about to do. You gently part your lips, taking the piece of fruit, hoping she keeps her hand there.

“You always let me feed you,” she says, quiet. Vulnerable. “Even though you pretend it’s silly.”

You swallow… the fruit, the emotion, all of it. “It’s not silly.”

“Then neither is this.”

She leans in. Slowly. Carefully. Her lips meet yours like a question she already knows the answer to. It tastes like tangerines and sunlight, and something else entirely, something soft and sharp and real.

She pulls back just a little, her eyes still closed. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I’ve been trying not to do that for weeks.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be.”

The words are barely a whisper, but they land heavy in the space between you. Your forehead touches hers. You don’t know what happens next, if it’s the beginning of something, or the tipping point of everything you’ve been pretending not to want.

But for now, there’s this.

The scent of citrus on her fingers. The warmth of her beside you. And the quiet, undeniable truth of a kiss you’ll never forget.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The next day is a mess.

Not outwardly. The sky is bright, your breakfast unburnt, your dress ironed, the Bridgerton estate humming with its usual chatter. But inside, everything feels off-kilter. You see Eloise at a distance, speaking animatedly with Benedict. She glances at you once. Quickly. Then looks away.

It stings more than you’d like.

You retreat to your usual spot in the garden, book in hand but unread. The page blurs from how long you’ve been staring at it. You think of her fingers, sweet with citrus, pressed to your mouth. Of her lips on yours, not demanding, but hopeful. Like a beginning.

What does it mean, now that it's happened?

You’re just about to get up, maybe wander aimlessly until the feeling fades, when you hear footsteps behind you. A familiar shuffle of boots, an annoyed huff, the rustle of skirts. Eloise.

She appears beside you, holding out a tangerine in both hands like a peace treaty.

“Still friends who eat fruit together?” she asks, voice too breezy to be casual.

You take the tangerine slowly. Turn it over in your palms. “Friends who kiss, perhaps?”

Eloise’s face shifts, wariness first, then wonder. Then she lights up like the damn sun. “Well,” she says, voice lighter, “that’s considerably more fun.”

You peel the tangerine this time. It feels like a statement. The skin comes off in clumsy chunks, and your fingers get sticky but you manage.

You pull apart the first quarter and hand it to her.

Her grin is a little crooked, a little shy. She takes it, but doesn’t eat it right away. She just looks at you.

“Does this mean I’ve been replaced as chief peeler?” she asks.

“Only temporarily,” you say. “You’re still my favorite citrus supplier.”

She hums, then pops the fruit into her mouth. “I should hope so. I’d be dreadfully jealous of myself.”

You both laugh. The sound is easy, light, and beneath it, something deeper. Something settled. Her foot bumps against yours and doesn’t move away. She doesn’t lean in for another kiss. Not yet. But the way her gaze softens when it lands on you says more than enough.

You sit there like that for a while, passing quarters back and forth, letting the silence speak where words can’t.

You’re not just friends anymore.

You’re something else now.

And whatever it is, it tastes like oranges and possibility.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s late afternoon, the sun soft and golden, filtering through the trees. You and Eloise are curled beneath one of them, tucked into a quiet corner of the Bridgerton gardens where the world feels far away.

Your legs are tangled together, not deliberately, but not accidentally either. A half-peeled tangerine rests in Eloise’s lap. You’re lying with your head against her shoulder, and she’s absently threading fingers through your hair between bites of fruit.

“You taste like summer,” you murmur, half-asleep.

Eloise hums a pleased little sound, then leans down and kisses your forehead, your cheek… and finally, your lips. The taste of oranges lingers, familiar now. Yours.

She rests her chin atop your head. “You’re terribly distracting, you know. I used to get so much reading done before you.”

“You were always reading near me,” you point out.

“Well, yes,” she concedes. “But that was different. You weren’t quite mine yet.”

You shift so you can look at her. “And now I am?”

“Entirely,” she says, matter-of-fact.

You smile into the next kiss. It’s lazy, content, slow, not the heart-racing kind, but the steady sort that says this is home now.

Later, Daphne finds the two of you there and smirks knowingly. “Is there a reason all the fruit disappears when you're together?”

Eloise waves her off with a dramatic sigh. “We’re cultivating a citrus-based courtship, obviously.”

Daphne just rolls her eyes and leaves the two of you to it, not wanting to wade in to whatever peace you have found.

You snort. “You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the one eating oranges under a tree with me like it’s a Shakespearean love story, so what does that say about you?”

“That I’m in love with someone who peels fruit like a menace and kisses like it’s the only language she knows.”

Eloise’s smirk falters. Just for a second. Something in her chest seems to twist, loosen.

She blinks fast. “Well. That’s… wildly unfair of you to say without any warning.”

You just kiss her again.

And this time, it tastes like forever.

extra (epilogue)

You find the letter tucked inside the cover of your favorite book, the one Eloise always pretends she hasn’t borrowed (but absolutely has).

It’s folded in thirds, the parchment a little wrinkled, clearly written in haste. And love. Her handwriting is as chaotic as her thoughts. It is slanted and uneven, but unmistakably hers.

Dearest (and most vexingly irresistible) Y/N, If I am to fall in love (and I am not saying that I have, mind you, because declarations are dramatic and terrifying and prone to being misunderstood) BUT IF I AM TO FALL, Let it be with someone who peels fruit better than I do (you do), who laughs when I am the least funny (you do), and who doesn’t mind that my opinions are louder than church bells (you really don’t, and it’s suspicious). Let it be with someone who shares my oranges, my secrets, my dreadful metaphors, and who lets me steal their warmth on cloudy days. Let it be you. Yours in citrus and chaos, Eloise (P.S. I have fallen, in case that wasn’t obvious. Do something about it, please. Preferably with fruit, my supplies are running low.)

You don’t hesitate.

The next day, you show up at the Bridgerton household with a basket full of tangerines, a ridiculous number of them in truth. You’ve even tied a ribbon around the handle.

When the butler announces you, Eloise bounds into the entryway like a girl summoned by magic. She sees the basket, then you, and stops short.

“I wasn’t sure how many I’d need to bring,” you say, voice soft but certain, “to say it right. Officially.”

She looks at you like she wants to kiss you and bolt in equal measure.

“To say what? Officially.” she manages, her voice just barely steady.

You set the basket down gently. Step closer. “That I’m yours. That I want to be wholly yours. That you were right in your letter.”

Her face breaks into a smile in the most beautiful way. “I’m...” she trails off, unheard of from her.

You smile anyway and nod. “I know.”

“I love you,” she blurts. “In the… wanting-to-share-every-tangerine-I-ever-eat-with-you sort of way. Which, for me, is quite serious.”

You reach for her hand. “Then let’s be serious. And silly. And everything in between.”

She stares at you for a beat, eyes bright.