Storyteller

“Would it make a difference?” you mumble against his lips. “We said we’d stop weeks ago.”

“We didn’t say we’d stop,” he corrects impatiently. “We said we’d stop meeting like this.”

“In public places.”

“Where anyone could walk out and see us.”

You nod, tangling a hand into his hair like you just can’t resist.

“It turns ya on though, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm?”

You’re gazing at him like he’s the centre of your universe, eyes glazed over and love drunk down to your bones.

“The thrill of it all, the risk, the chase… you love this shit, don’t cha?”

You shake your head so unconvincingly that you both chuckle, knowing the truth deep down.

“You dragged me out here, may I remind you,” you whisper.

“Didn’t even try to stop me though, did ya?”

“You’re so irritating.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, tugging on his hair to help prove your point.

“You love it.”

He dives back into your mouth, tongue running across your teeth as if he knows your anatomy from sheer memory alone.

You’ve hiked a leg up and around his hip to try and pull him closer to you, Declan willingly leaning in. His entire body weight is pressing you into the wall, the rough brick no doubt scratching your back.

He’s pulling your skirt up just enough to nudge your underwear to the side and slide a finger in, both of you groaning at what you feel. Your head drops forward onto his shoulder, inhaling deeply out of habit. He smells like whiskey and smoke and his woody aftershave. He smells like sneaking around and overthinking and worrying about getting caught. He smells like everything you want and more.

Declan crooks his fingers towards him, making your knees buckle as he does it. You’re about to beg him for more, for anything, when a voice comes echoing through the darkness, cutting through your intimate moment.

“Declan? Are you out here?”

The two of you jump apart, trying to make a last ditch attempt to look half decent in the face of debauchery.

“Answer him,” you whisper as low as you can, pulling your skirt down and smoothing out your hair.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he croaks, a little rougher than he would have liked.

“What are you doing standing in the dark like a maniac?” Rupert asks as he appears in front of you, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie long abandoned.

“Smoking.”

“We both had the genius idea of trying to sneak off to somewhere quiet for five minutes. Great minds think alike and all that,” you bluff with practised precision.

“Oh, hi darling. I didn’t see you there.”

“Hi Rupert. Everything alright?”

“Just fine. Or at least it will be. Come and find me when you’re finished, Declan. I need to have a quick chat with you - Venturer business.”

“Of course. I’ll be in in a few minutes.”

Rupert mock salutes you both as he leaves, never one to overstay his welcome.

“Well that was fucking close,” the Irishman breathes when his friend is safely out of earshot. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Too fucking close, Declan. I almost just had a heart attack.”

“We’re fine, don’t panic sweetheart. Everything’s fine.”

You feel a sudden wave of what you think is rage wash over you, uninvited and surprising.

“It’s not fine, actually. I’m not doing that again. No fucking chance. Imagine the absolute outrage if he’d walked out five minutes earlier, or if he hadn’t announced himself. It’d be chaos, Declan. The kind of chaos that ruins careers, that ruins livelihoods.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen.”

“You wouldn’t have a choice! Don’t you understand? You can’t control situations like these. They run their own course and you cannot stop them.”

“Where’s this change of tune come from, huh? We were fine two minutes ago!”

“I’m sick of my heart beating out of my chest whenever someone so much as coughs from a hundred metres away! I am so worried about getting caught, about getting us both in trouble, that it’s taken over everything. It’s not worth the stress, Declan. And you know that.”

“Don’t tell me what I know.”

He’s never taken this tone with you before - the to the point, no frills, blunt tone that you usually only hear in business meetings. On one hand, you’re glad he’s taking this conversation seriously. On the other hand, it’s breaking your heart.

He takes several steps towards you, fingers reaching out to tangle themselves with yours. You can’t help but squeeze his hand, old habits dying hard.

“We’ll be more careful,” he whispers. “We’ll put a stop to the stupid stuff.”

“It’s going to end in disaster,” you reply lowly. “You and I both know that this doesn’t have a happy ending.”

“It could.”

“It doesn’t.”

“You’re not usually a pessimist like this,” he mutters.

“It’s realism, not pessimism.”

“Sounds the same to me.”

“I’m trying to make sure we aren’t living in a fantasy world.”

“I’m under no illusions of what this is, sweetheart. Trust me. I am very aware of the fact that I am married, and you are half my age. Don’t you think I know how wrong this is? How much trouble we’d be in if we were found out?”

You dare to meet his eyes, his gaze piercing into your soul. His fingers tighten around yours, as if he’s frightened you’ll disappear in front of his face.

“I’m scared,” you dare to admit, as quietly as you can. “I’m terrified, Declan. I feel like we’re a ticking time bomb, just waiting to ruin everything.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, cradling your face with those huge, calloused hands. “I will never, ever, let anything bad happen to you. I’ll protect you until my last day on this goddamn planet.”

“I know that,” you almost whimper, voice wobbling with the threat of tears. “Of course I know that.”

“There’s a world where this works, you know. It’ll take time, and a hell of a lot of patience… but we can do it. I know we can.”

“I don’t want to ruin your life over a… fling.”

“A fling?” he flinches, looking at you so seriously that it worries you.

“I just-”

“My darlin’, you are not a fling. You are everything.”

Now you feel guilty for ever doubting him, the feeling washing over you in dark, heavy waves.

“I’m sorry.”

Your bottom lip is trembling, words stuck in your throat. There’s so much you want to say, but you just can’t seem to form the right sentences.

“You have nothing to apologise for, alright? I know you’re trying to be realistic to stop either of us getting hurt. But I am in this. With every single fibre of my being. It’s you, sweetheart. You’re all I want.”

“Promise?”

“With my entire heart, I promise.”

You surge up to kiss him with all the passion you can muster, bodies crashing into each other. Declan wraps his arms around your back, pulling you into him as closely as he possibly can as you tangle your fingers into his hair. You’re not sure where you end and he begins. You don’t want to know.

The two of you could stay like this forever, intertwined and completely oblivious to the outside world. Just you and the love of your life, obstacles be damned.

You break apart for air eventually, breathing each other in as deep as you can. Declan cradles your face once again, looking intently into your eyes.

“We’ll figure this out, yeah? Me and you. Always.”

You nod, gazing up at him like he’s the moon and all of her stars.

“Me and you. Always.”

You’re about to kiss him when you hear a familiar voice echo through the darkness once again.

“Declan? Have you finished your cigarette? We’ve got some urgent Venturer business happening inside that we really need you for.”

The Irishman gives you a look that says, wait for me. This isn’t finished. You give him a look in return that says, I’ll find you. Always.

The two of you are floating on air, carried through your days by the promise of a future together.

It’s a shame neither of you noticed Rupert when he reappeared outside five minutes ago.

Unfortunately, that’s simply not possible, but you do your best to carve out a little bit of time for yourself at least once a week to patronize a new bakery. And, it’s always a little more magical when Jamie is able to join you, slipping in between training or sneaking out before he can get hounded by questions. 

Today, he was already at the bakery you’d decided on, tucked into a table in the back corner when you walked in, the bell ringing above your head. You don’t notice him at first, too enamored with the fall decor that covers practically every service. Before you can get distracted by the menu, though, you notice Jamie sitting all alone, looking at you with a soft sort of smile on his face. 

“What’s with that look?” You ask after crossing over to him, sitting down in the empty chair across from him.

“What look?” He shrugs, even as his smile tells you he knows exactly what you’re talking about, “This is just my face.”

“Mhm,” you reply, not believing him in the slightest. Still, there’s no use teasing when you have precious little time to spend together, with the football season in full swing and your own work starting to pile up. Your gaze wanders again, towards the decorated menu board and the seasonal specials. 

“Keeley says the cinnamon rolls here are great,” Jamie says, that lovesick sort of smile back on his face. 

“Wanna split one, or would Roy kill you for that?” You’re joking, mostly, but you also know that Jamie takes his training very seriously, especially now that Richmond has been doing consistently well. Most of the time when you go exploring the local cafes, Jamie sticks to some sort of tea, or a fancier coffee if you lovingly pressure him into it. 

“Nah, he won’t find out,” he says with a grin, and a smile takes over your own face. The two of you make your way to the counter to order, Jamie sticking with his tea and you branching out to something more autumnal in addition to the cinnamon roll. 

Between the baked good and your drinks, your table smells like autumn, all sweet spices and warmth. Really, that’s how the entire bakery smells, and you can’t remember the last time you felt so cozy. The only thing that could possibly make the afternoon better would be a rain shower, and knowing London, that’s more than likely to happen. 

Saturday mornings are Joaquin’s favorite. He’ll never say that out loud, not in so many words. But, it’s more than obvious in the way he lingers in bed just a little too long, humming under his breath, nosing at your shoulder like some overgrown, needy cat. It’s in the way his arms snake around your waist when you try to get up, anchoring you back to him with a lazy groan of protest.

“Stay,” Joaquin mumbles into your shirt, muffled and warm.

“Baby, I need to pee,” you laugh, gently prying at his arms.

“Betrayal,” Joaquin whispers, dramatically. “Is this what our love has come to?”

You untangle yourself with all the grace of a tired octopus, padding to the bathroom while Joaquin turns and flops face-first into your pillow like the world’s most dramatic boyfriend.

By the time you return, Joaquin has commandeered your side of the bed entirely, limbs sprawled like a starfish, blanket kicked off halfway. The sun’s made a golden square across the sheets, and his hair, ever disobedient, is sticking up in odd angles. He looks up at you when you climb back in, all slow-blinking affection.

“Mornin’,” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

“Good morning,” you reply, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw, just because.

Joaquin grins, eyes closing again, and that’s how you spend the next twenty minutes, with your limbs tangled, skin warm, the world held at arm’s length.

You’ve never been a morning cuddler. You’re the type to wake up and immediately crave space. Clarity. A cup of coffee in silence, maybe the gentle sound of birds through the window. You used to slip out of bed like a ghost, careful not to wake anyone.

But, Joaquin changed that.

Now, you find yourself lingering. Letting yourself be pulled back into the gravity of him. You’ve learned to love the way he holds you like something precious and irreplaceable. Like your heartbeat is something he needs to sync his own to in order to keep it steady.

The kitchen is your sanctuary. Everything in it is arranged by you, from alphabetised spices, stacked mugs in their allocated corners, cutting boards cleaned and leaned against the backsplash at perfect angles. It’s not about control, exactly. Just peace. Order. A quiet kind of joy.

So naturally, Joaquin makes it his mission to invade it at every opportunity.

“You don’t need to be here,” you tell Joaquin one evening, as he looms behind you while you stir pasta.

“I want to be here,” he says, resting his chin atop your head with an exaggerated sigh. “You smell like garlic and joy.”

“You’re bothering me.”

“Am I?” Joaquin asks, arms wrapping around your middle, lips grazing your ear. “Or am I enhancing the experience?”

“You’re going to get hot oil on your face.”

“Worth it.”

You elbow him gently, but don’t tell him to leave. Because, the truth is, you kind of like the way he’s always there. It’s maddening and sweet and weirdly grounding. He makes the space feel alive, like the scent of basil and the sound of his laugh belong together. You pass him a spoon to taste, and he dips it into the sauce with great ceremony.

“Mmm. Yup. That’s marriage material right there,” Joaquin declares, eyes sparkling.

“You say that every time I cook something edible.”

“And I’ll keep saying it until we have a courthouse date, beautiful.”

Your cheeks heat, even though he’s said it a dozen times before. You roll your eyes, and he beams like he’s won something.

You’re curled up on the couch that evening, legs tucked beneath you, a book open in your lap. Joaquin flops down beside you, entirely uninvited, entirely unsurprising

You’re three chapters in and doing your best to focus, but it’s hard when he keeps scooting closer in tiny increments. First it’s a knee brushing yours. Then a shoulder leaning in. Then an arm slung casually over the back of the couch.

Joaquin doesn’t say anything. Just orbits. Eventually, he rests his chin on your shoulder and sighs dramatically. You glance at him from the corner of your eye.

“Yes?”

“I’m bored.”

“I told you to watch your show.”

“It’s not fun without you.”

You close your book with a resigned sigh. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m adorable,” Joaquin corrects, eyes wide with feigned innocence.

“You’re both.”

Joaquin grins, triumphant, and curls into your side like a loyal puppy. You stroke his hair absently, and he hums like a man thoroughly pleased with his life choices.

You used to think you needed solitude to feel whole. That space was sacred. A kind of armor. Joaquin never tried to break it, he just made room for himself inside it. With patience. With laughter. With all the warmth of someone who never needed to be invited because his love was always soft and sure and certain. You didn’t know how much you needed that until he gave it to you.

One afternoon, you catch Joaquin reorganising your bookshelf. It should set off alarm bells. You’re territorial about your books. They’ve been curated with the kind of precision normally reserved for museum exhibits.

Joaquin is squatting on the floor, tongue poking out in concentration, rearranging them by vibe of all things.

“I’m switching it up,” Joaquin says when he notices that you’re stood there staring. “This shelf is books you’ve cried over but keep recommending anyway. This one is things that feel like late autumn in New York. This one is sapphic yearning with a lot of trauma.”

You stare at him incredulously.

Joaquin just grins. “You like it?”

You open your mouth to argue. To say something about spines being even or the sanctity of the color gradient. But, then you see it. The way Joaquin’s fingers linger on the cover of your favorite novel. The way he’s handled your books with the same delicate care he gives to old flight gear or archived Falcon wings.

You close your mouth, cross the room, and kiss him stupid.

Joaquin blinks up at you afterward, dazed. “So, that’s a yes?”

“Touch them ever again and you die,” you reply, deadpan, but unable to suppress a loving grin.

“Fair. Noted. Love you.”

“Love you more,” you say, and mean it so hard your ribs ache.

You wake up one night and find Joaquin on the balcony. He’s leaning against the railing, barefoot in one of your oversized sweatshirts, hair tousled from sleep. The city hums softly below, streetlights blinking, a distant siren wailing, the quiet heartbeat of something bigger than both of you. You step out beside him, arms crossed to ward off the chill.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Too quiet without you.” You bump your shoulder into his. He reaches for your hand without looking, fingers intertwining easily.

“I used to love my own space,” you murmur.

“Used to?”

“Now I just love sharing it with you.”

Joaquin smiles, soft and sleepy and full of something that feels like forever. “I promise I’ll always make room for you too,” he says.

And in that moment, with the city below and the stars overhead and Joaquin’s hand warm in yours, you believe him.

So he swung his way to the roof of some random building, and he’s taking a break. Sue him, but Peter thinks he deserves it. What’s the point of living in a city like New York if you can’t have a second to yourself every once in a while? 

He’ll go home soon. Grab a bodega sandwich, maybe stop another crime, and then get home for some much needed rest. But for now, he’s just going to sit on this rooftop and relax for a second. Even Spider-man needs some peace and— 

“Babe—” 

“Why are you following me?”

Peter winces as the door slams open, an argument following close after as a girl storms out onto the roof followed by a guy speeding to keep up with her. His first instinct is to swing away as soon as possible, but for some reason, he stays. 

“Because I want to talk!”

“God, do you even hear yourself?” 

“You keep talking over me, so I really—” 

“You don’t get to babe me right now!” 

As if his day hadn’t been bad enough, now he’s accidentally made himself privy to some couple’s dispute. He’s about to web himself out of this third wheeling nightmare when the girl turns around with a groan, revealing her face, and Peter realizes who it is. 

It’s you.

This is your apartment complex. Peter came here without even realizing it, but can he really be surprised? Your name is synonymous with peace in his brain. Comes with the territory of being friends for so long—it still calms him, even when you’re being the opposite of peaceful. 

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this!” the guy exclaims, frustration clear in his voice. 

Of course. Why wouldn’t your shitty boyfriend be here too? The only reason you live here is because you scored this place together; said he didn’t want you living on campus anymore. Ethan Frey might be the bane of Peter’s existence after two and a half years of him being your boyfriend. 

“Because you and your posse are acting like complete jags in front of all my friends!” you shout back. 

He laughs in disbelief. “I’m just being myself, babe. Besides, you’re the one who said I could invite them!” 

“Because you complained about it just being my friends,” you grind out. “You weren’t even supposed to be here, Ethan! You just can’t handle the thought of me being around guys that aren’t you!” 

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think, huh?” He gestures wildly. “You spend every second with that geek and I’m supposed to believe you’re not into him?” 

And now he’s eavesdropping on a conversation between you and your boyfriend about him. How could this get worse? 

“God, it isn’t like that at all!” you exclaim with a mirthless laugh. “Peter is my friend— my best friend since elementary school. You knew when we got together that wasn’t going to change.” 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding lazily, “but that was before I knew how obvious his hard-on for you was.” 

Peter feels his face heat beneath the mask, wants to wipe the sweat off his palms. That’s how it could get worse. 

Your nostrils flare as you turn away, your hands flexing while you shake your head. “Get out of here, Ethan.” 

“Oh, of course that’s where you draw the line,” Ethan mocks. “When I bring up fuckin’ Peter Parker.” He pauses then chuckles. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” 

Peter nearly intervenes right then and there, wanting to stop this mess before Ethan does anything to hurt you. But revealing himself sounds like the worst possible thing to do, so for once he listens to the rational part of his brain over the emotional. 

“He’s not even here!” you retort. “I live with you, not him. I’m dating you, not him. Why are you bringing him up?” 

“Because I’m not blind.” Ethan crosses his arms. “Y’know, I thought you’d get over this little thing after you let me take you out, but for some reason, it’s exactly the same. I swear you spend more time with him than me.”

Your hands clench into fists. “Get out of here.” 

He scoffs. “You want me to leave you up here?” 

“Yes,” you nod. 

“God, you’ve been acting crazy this whole night!” he complains. “You’ll freeze up here. Just get over it—we’ll go back down, I’ll get you a beer—” 

“I hate beer.” 

“Then I’ll get you a fucking apple juice,” he spits. “Just stop being so dramatic.” 

“You’re not listening to me!” you shout. “I want you to leave me alone!” 

This time he says your name, and you shake your head. 

“Go back to the apartment,” you interrupt. “Because if I have to spend another second with you, our relationship might not make it through the night.”

For once, Ethan is silent as he stares at you. You stare back with no sign of giving up. Eventually, he just huffs and shakes his head. 

“Whatever.” He starts walking towards the door. “You better cool off up here, because I’m not dealing with this shit when you come back down.” 

You stare at the door for a good twenty seconds once he closes the door—slams it, rather—before you angrily kick a stray soda can. Your childhood days of rec soccer must still be in you, because you get an arc on it. Just before it can go over the side of the building, Peter shoots a web to catch it wholly on instinct. 

Your eyes widen as you dart around, and Peter is finally spotted from his place on top of the roof door building thing. What is that even called? He doesn’t really have time to think about it. The aluminum can crunches as it flies into his hand, and you stare at him in complete shock. 

“Uh,” his mouth suddenly feels very dry, but he has to make some excuse for why he’s up here, “littering is bad.” 

Good one, Parker. 

“You’re Spider-man,” you say, eyes still wide. 

“The one and only,” he nods. 

“Oh my god,” you mumble, finally seeming to break out of your shock as you cover your mouth and turn away. “Oh my god, Spider-man just heard my relationship falling apart.” 

“I didn’t hear anything!” Peter exclaims. “I—”

You shoot him the withering look he loves so much, that was able to get his bullies to shrink on the spot in high school—it feels weird being on the receiving end of it. 

“I’m not stupid,” you say. 

“I kn—” He has to stop himself from saying I know, because realistically Spider-man has no idea who you are. “I’m sorry.” 

You huff and cross your arms. “Do your superhero duties include eavesdropping on failing couples?” 

“It was an accident,” Peter says. “I was up here before you were. So technically, you were eavesdropping on my actual superhero duties.” 

You laugh, and he smiles just at the sound of it. One benefit to wearing the mask, because it would expose him right on the spot. “Oh yeah? And what are those?” 

“Patrolling the streets,” he says. “I’ve got a very good vantage point from up here.” 

You hum, your mood turning a bit more morose as you glance away. “Well, I’m sorry you had to hear all that during your patrol.” 

“I’m sorry you had to go through it,” he says. “Your boyfriend sounds like an asshole.” 

You roll your eyes. “He’s fine, most of the time. Just had a little bit too much to drink.” 

Peter will never understand why you defend Ethan so much. You’ve been together since freshman year and he’s only gotten worse since then—maybe he hides how he is around you, because he hasn’t really shied away from showing Peter how much he hates him this past year.

“He looked pretty sober to me,” Peter says. “And trust me, I have plenty of experience fighting guys that have had too much to drink.” 

You huff. “What are you, a spider-therapist?” 

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he says. “And I’m always good for bending an ear.”

“Surely you have better things to do than listen to me complain.” 

Peter shakes his head. “My schedule’s pretty clear right now, actually.”

“Really?” you marvel. “There’s no crime in New York City at,” you check your watch, “11:37 pm?”

“Absolutely none,” he says. “I solved it all. At least for now.”

You laugh again at that and gesture with your head as you walk over to the edge of the roof. “Then I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Peter jumps down and follows you over. You hoist yourself on top of the wall, legs dangling over the edge, and he feels himself frown as he leans his back against the wall and looks up at you. 

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” 

“You’ll catch me if I fall,” you say. 

“Obviously,” Peter says. “I’m supposed to encourage safe behavior in New Yorkers, though.” 

You laugh and tilt your head up towards the night sky. The moonlight reflects in your eyes and Peter knows he could get lost in them forever. “Just this once, then.” 

“I think I can let it slide.” 

“Good.” 

A comfortable beat of silence passes between the two of you, and Peter finds himself smiling. No wonder he ended up at your place out of instinct. There’s nothing else like your company. 

“I always think it’ll be different,” you murmur. Peter glances up at you, your expression shifted to something more melancholic. “We’ll have a good day, which’ll turn into a good week and a good month, but he always does something to mess it up. It’s like it’s in his DNA.” 

He stays silent as you think. Most of the time when you rant to Peter, you just want to be heard, not given advice. At this point, he’s an expert at listening to you. It’s not like he minds. 

“I want things to work out. I— I still love him. I mean, I think I do. But everything is a fucking struggle with him. If I don’t do things the exact way he wants, if I try to do something for me instead of him, if I can’t read his fucking mind, then he loses it and we argue. And I’m so fucking tired of arguing!” 

Your voice has risen by now, and you bite down hard on your cheek. Peter doesn’t realize he’s started reaching towards you to comfort you until you look back down at him, and he runs his hand over his head in an effort to cover it up. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I promise, I’m a much nicer person than this. You just caught me at the worst time.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I know.”

Your brows rise. “Spider-man knows I’m a nice person?”

“I can just tell,” he rushes, trying to save himself. He’s doing a real good job at not revealing his identity. “I’m good at reading people.”

You chuckle and shake your head, then adjust your position so your back is towards the open air. It makes Peter nervous, he can’t lie, but it’s not like he’s not a superhero. 

“So, spider-therapist,” you say. “Any advice?” 

So this is one of the rare times you do want answers. Peter wonders if you’ll leave your boyfriend if Spider-man tells you to. 

“He doesn’t sound great,” Peter says, inclining his head. “How many times have you argued this week?” 

“Four,” you say. “Five, if you include tonight.” 

He whistles. “And it’s only Wednesday.”

You tip your shoulder. “We’re efficient.” 

“And unhappy, it sounds like.” 

“We’re not unhappy,” you defend. “We’re just…” 

“You’re up here talking to me instead of down there with him,” Peter says wryly. “That doesn’t exactly scream ‘happy couple’.” 

You shake your head with another sigh. “It’s because he can’t get over Peter.” 

He tries to act as nonchalant as possible when you bring him up. Is this an invasion of privacy? Letting you talk to him about all this when you have no idea who Spider-man actually is? 

Instead of floundering over moral qualms, he just clears his throat. “And who’s he?” 

“My best friend,” you say. “The one person who’s been by my side since the second I moved to New York. He means everything to me.”

Peter feels his heart skip a beat. “Yeah?” 

“He’s like— like the opposite of Ethan, and it’s wonderful. I guess that’s why Pete irks him so much. Y’know,” you pull out your phone and start typing in your password, “maybe I should call him. He always knows what to say.” 

“No!” Peter exclaims with a bit too much force, causing you to give him a look. “No— I mean, it’s late. He’s probably asleep. And— and it’s a school night?” 

You tilt your head, and Peter exhales when it seems to work. “True. He’s probably studying for that biochem test.” You grimace. “I should be doing that too.” 

He watches you type out a few texts and send them, and Peter’s never been more thankful to have his phone on silent. What a way that would be to blow his cover. 

You shove your phone back in your pocket with another sigh. “I just hate that my boyfriend and my best friend don’t get along. I love them both—why can’t they like each other?” 

“I mean…” Peter trails off when you look at him, and he gestures with his head. “It seems pretty obvious why they don’t get along.” 

“Yeah,” you say dryly. “Because Ethan thinks Peter likes me, and he probably thinks I have some secret crush on him too. I swear, he’s always looking for a reason to fight.” 

God, could the universe be calling him out any more? It’s honestly ridiculous how this is going. 

“Do you?” Peter asks, because he can’t help himself. “Like him, I mean.” 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I love Pete, I do. It’s always been the two of us no matter what. But I…”

He holds his breath as he tries not to look at you, tries not to make it too obvious that he might have stumbled his way into his simultaneous dream and nightmare scenario. 

He’s had a crush on you for what feels like forever. Since you stood up for him against his bullies in elementary school, honestly, and it’s only grown over the years as the two of you have grown. From recesses spent together and bike rides through the city; spending the night in Peter’s apartment because it was easier for your sister to let it happen than try and drag you back home; endless nights with heads bent over textbooks trying to study for tests, over college applications trying to get into the same place, and now studying and researching near every damn weekend together because you’re both unfortunate enough to try for ESU STEM degrees. 

You were there when Ben died. He’s there on every anniversary of your parents’ accident. Without knowing it, you were there when he got bit and his whole life turned upside down. 

You and Peter have been there every step of the way for each other, and it’s why he’s content with just friendship—Peter wants you in his life no matter what. But he can’t lie and say he doesn’t hope. 

No, actually. He yearns. He’s doomed to be a yearner for the rest of his life because he’ll never stop loving you. How could he? 

“I’m not sure,” you finally say with a sigh. “All I know is that I’d rather be with Pete tonight than Ethan.”

Peter wonders if your chest compressions are still as good as they were in high school, because he feels like he’s about to have a heart attack. 

You’d rather be spending tonight with him than your boyfriend of two years and seven months, and Peter isn’t even supposed to know. 

You mistake his silent freakout for nonchalance, and you clear your throat as you jump back onto solid ground. 

“Well, I’ve spilled my soul to you,” you say wryly, crossing your arms. “Anything a superhero can spill in return?”

Peter thinks for a good, long second. His hands itch to take off his mask, to do what he’s wanted to do since he got bitten by that stupid spider and show you who he really is. 

How many times has he been a total asshole, canceling plans on you because he had to go stop some supervillain from wreaking havoc in Times Square? How many times has he been late to something important to you because he was caught up stopping dime a dozen muggings? He still remembers the look on your face when he showed up just in time to miss the entirety of Les Mis’s opening night with your first lead role. 

You were a better best friend to Peter than he was to you because of this stupid mask. If he took it off, it wouldn’t make every mistake fade away, but it would sure help explain some of it. 

But Peter has been doing this since high school, and he has seen far too many times what happens to the loved ones of heroes. They’re used as leverage, used for ransom, sometimes just straight up killed.

You’ve been friends with Peter since you and your sister moved into the apartment next to May’s thirteen years ago. It doesn’t matter if you never share Peter’s feelings. You’re one of the only constants in his life, and he’s not going to lose you because he’s too selfish to keep a secret. 

Losing you would be the last straw. He couldn’t take it. 

So Peter pushes all thoughts of secret identities revealed out of his mind and tries to chuckle convincingly. 

“I’m allergic to peppermint, believe it or not.” 

You stare at him, deadpan. “That’s nowhere close to all the shit I just gave you.” 

“It’s true!” he exclaims, holding up his hands. “Happened after I got bit by the spider. They’re repelled by peppermint oil, and I guess I am too.” 

You shake your head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Spider-man is a coward.” 

“A superhero’s gotta have some secrets,” he says, and he taps the side of his head. “Otherwise this thing doesn’t do much good.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “Whatever.” 

A chill suddenly goes up Peter’s spine and he whips around—he can hear a distant scream followed by a distant gunshot, and he mentally curses. 

“Duty calls?” you ask, drawing his attention back to you. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry—” 

“Don’t be.” You smile, and it’s genuine. A nice change from the state Ethan effortlessly puts you in. “You went out of your way to cheer me up. Pretty super of you.” 

“I hope it makes up for the eavesdropping,” he says. 

“More than,” you nod. “Now get out of here. Your city needs you.” 

Peter nods too, and he backflips onto his original spot. “Have a good night. You’re real special to somebody.” 

He’s gone before you can say anything else, already zipping across the rooftops to get to the scene of the crime. Peter can only think of your face as he swings through the air—all the things he’s too scared to say to you. 

The crime, which turns out to be yet another petty theft, is resolved easily enough with some punches, kicks, and a snappy one-liner. Once he’s retrieved the woman’s purse and alerted the police, he’s back in the sky. 

Peter only stops once he’s swung a couple miles away, perching on the edge of some rooftop for some actual peace and quiet. He checks around once or twice to make sure he’s not somehow back at your place, and when he’s sure it’s all clear, he pulls his phone out. He swipes past all the notifications he’s racked up until he finds the one he’s looking for: the texts from you. 

hey pete, I know you’re prob asleep rn but you were right. I really need to study for that test lol

wanna meet me at the library tomorrow after QM? I’ll buy the coffee this time i promise <3 

as long as you use your roomie’s dining dollars to get me a croissant lol 

Peter can’t help but smile, larger than anything tonight. This is why he’s okay with being nothing but your friend for the rest of his life. 

Deal. Anything to get you an A 

lol

asshole 

Never 

Try to get some sleep. No good studying on a tired brain 

Three dots appear for a good long second, enough to constitute a decent paragraph—then they disappear. In its place: 

I’ll try just for you 

night boy genius

(How could he not love you?) 

He’s yelling into your ear, both of you fighting to raise your voices above the noise of Bar Sinister.

“I’m always having a good time with you,” you tease, leaning into his side. “I’m alright, Bas. Promise.”

“You need to let loose for once in your life.”

“I’ll let loose on a day I’m not working.”

“You’re always working.”

“What can I say? He’s hard fucking work.”

You both look over to your boss, who’s currently animatedly telling Declan a story. Rupert’s gesturing so exaggeratedly that people are ducking out of the way, both men laughing and completely oblivious as beer and whiskey splash all over the floor.

Bas presses a kiss into your hair, squeezing you tightly.

“I don’t know what he’d do without you.”

“Well, he never has to find out. We’re stuck with each other,” you chuckle. “Best job I’ve ever had, surprisingly.”

“I won’t tell him you said that,” Bas winks, laughing.

The sound of multiple glasses smashing has the both of you whipping your heads around, trying to find the source of the commotion.

“Shit. I’ll see you later, darling. Come and find me if you need anything, yeah?”

“Course.”

Bas disappears into the bustling crowd, leaving you standing at the bar. It’s absolutely manic, people packed in to the rafters and bumping into each other left, right and centre.

You’re about to make your way over to Rupert when a hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you backwards so hard that you stumble over your own feet. You tug your arm away, finally getting a good look at the person who’s responsible.

“Spencer?”

“Oh, so you do remember me then?”

“… What? We were together for six months, and I don’t have short term memory loss, so… yes.”

“I just meant because you’re hanging around with the elite now. The rumour is that you’re working for Rupert Campbell Black.”

“I am working for Rupert Campbell Black. It’s not a secret, Spencer. I’m his aide and assistant. I’m working for Venturer, too, helping with their public relations. And you are… what? Still pretending to work for your father when you really just spend your days drinking and betting?”

“I do work for my father.”

“Of course you do.”

He steps forward, getting into your personal space.

“What are you doing in here, Spencer? You don’t even live in Rutshire.”

“Thought I’d pop in, see if you were here. Wanted to see if there was any truth to the rumours.”

“Well, you’ve put the rumours to bed now, haven’t you?”

“Not the only thing that’s been put to bed,” he murmurs, just low enough so you only catch half of it.

“Pardon me?”

Your entire body is taut with tension, nerves alert and heart racing. You can only imagine how uncomfortable you must look, praying that someone notices sooner rather than later.

“Which one are you sleeping with, then?”

“Spencer-”

“No, come on. You finished things with me, so there must be another man. Who is it?”

“I’m finished things with you - eight months ago, mind you - because you’re an immature prick who’s so pretentious it makes you deeply unlikeable. There was no other man, I’d just rather be single than be with you.”

His chest puffs out as he starts to go red with rage, anger bubbling up in his veins. You know that you’re not completely unsafe here in this room full of people, but that doesn’t calm your anxiety in the slightest.

“Which one is it, hmm?” his voice is raising, getting louder with every passing minute. “Which one looks like your type?”

He points at Seb first, quirking an eyebrow.

“Him?”

When you don’t respond, he moves on to pointing at Patrick.

“Him?”

You shake your head almost imperceptibly, wishing that the ground would swallow you up.

“Oh my god… it’s him, isn’t it?”

His eyes have landed on Rupert, who’s still stood across the room. Your boss is looking at you, now, quickly assessing the situation you’re in.

“You’re fucking Rupert Campbell Black?!”

The entire crowd of people goes silent as he practically screams it, everyone’s heads turning to look at you.

“She’s… what?” Rupert, Declan and Bas all ask at the exact same time, hilariously in sync.

“Fucked your way up to the top, did you? Classy as always.”

Spencer goes to continue his sentence, but hits the floor suddenly with a heavy thud. You look up to see Declan shaking off his hand, chest heaving with adrenaline. Your ex boyfriend has a busted lip, blood dripping down his chin and onto his awfully unflattering shirt.

“It’s called hard work, you arrogant little prick. Not that you’d know.”

Declan’s Irish accent sounds stronger than usual, coloured with fury and aggression. Bas has dragged Spencer to his feet, both him and Rupert holding him upright.

“If I ever catch you anywhere near here again, I’ll do more than just split your fucking lip. You understand?”

Spencer nods, clearly still dizzy from the impact of the punch. He’s dragged outside before anyone can say anything else, the crowd returning back to their drinks as if nothing ever happened.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

Declan links his fingers with yours before you can register what’s happening, pulling you through the bar and out of the back door. You take a seat on the brick wall, legs dangling over the edge as you kick your feet.

“You okay?” he asks as he sits down next to you, just close enough that you can feel his body heat.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure.”

You don’t really know how to feel, confused by the whole ordeal.

“He seems like a nice boy.”

You laugh suddenly at the bad joke, shaking your head as Declan laughs with you. It’s not a sound you hear from him all that often.

“Sorry you had to punch him.”

“I didn’t have to. Kinda wanted to, though.”

“Me too.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours, looking at you carefully.

“I didn’t just hit him for a laugh, you know. I was worried he was going to hurt ya.”

“I was too,” you whisper, vulnerability bleeding into your tone.

“I’d never of let that happen. I promise, sweetheart.”

His hand finds yours again, fingers gently sliding in between yours. He rests your intertwined hands on his thigh, thumb rubbing patterns on your skin.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

You sit in silence for a long moment, enjoying the way the warmth of his palm seeps slowly into yours.

“I didn’t think anyone had even noticed Spencer was there.”

“I saw as soon as he walked in, because I knew I didn’t recognise him. I tried to give you some space, thought maybe you were friends or something. Didn’t want to intervene and embarrass ya.”

“Ex boyfriend, if you haven’t already guessed. We were only together about six months all in all, about eight months ago. Don’t know what I was thinking, really. He’s fucking awful.”

“You can say that again,” he chuckles, hand squeezing yours. “Not sure what you ever saw in him.”

“Neither am I, anymore. I don’t know, maybe I just liked having someone really like me, as sad as that sounds. Dating is fun and exciting and… well, it’s supposed to be. God knows it isn’t, for me.”

Declan slides his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side to keep the evening chill at bay. You can hear the ruckus from inside, everyone in the bar carrying on as usual.

“I think you just keep choosing the wrong men, darlin’. Don’t swear off dating just because of a few bad apples.”

“I mean, I haven’t dated anyone since Spencer, and that finished eight months ago. I’d rather stay single than date any more of these posh boys who’ve never worked a day in their lives.”

He laughs, and the vibrations of it rumble through the both of you, settling into your bones. All you can think about is how warm he is and how good he smells and how if you leaned in an inch to your left, you could kiss him right on the cheek.

“What if it’s me?” you can’t help but ask quietly. “What if I’m the reason I can’t find someone?”

“What?”

“I mean, I work for Rupert - which I love - but my job is my life now. He’s a handful as it is, and now with all the Venturer stuff… all I do is work. And I know I’m not pretty like Taggie or powerful and bossy like Cameron but-”

“You’re beautiful.”

Declan stops you in your tracks, his interruption derailing your train of thought completely.

“I- what?”

“Sweetheart, the only reason I noticed that prat Spencer earlier was because I was already looking at you.”

“You were?”

“I always am.”

“… Why?”

“I don’t know, exactly. It’s like this… gravitational pull. You light up a room.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” you chuckle nervously.

“I wish it was.”

You don’t know what to say, so you lean further into his side, resting your head on his broad shoulder and breathing him in.

“I would have said something sooner,” he murmurs, “but Rupert would fucking kill me.”

“He’s not my keeper, Declan.”

“No, but he’s your boss. And for all intents and purposes, your big brother.”

He rests his head atop of yours, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“How’s your hand?”

“Perfectly fine,” he laughs, squeezing your thigh. “I’ll make a full recovery.”

“Thank God for that.”

Declan turns his body so he can look at you properly, big hands coming up to cradle your face. Neither of you say anything, waiting with tense anticipation for the other person to move first.

You surprise yourself by leaning in and planting a kiss on his lips, chaste and testing the waters. You begin to overthink everything the minute you pull back, worried that you’ve misread his kindness. As if he can read your mind, he tangles a hand into your hair and tugs you back into him, kissing you with a passion you’ve never experienced before.

His tongue slips into your mouth cheekily as you let him take the lead, happy to surrender the control to him. You’ve dreamt about this, late nights in bed spent wondering if the real thing would live up to your imagination. It definitely does.

Eventually, you both pull away, panting and flushed. You can no longer feel the chill in the air, the warmth of Declan keeping the cold at bay.

“Don’t tell Rupert,” he whispers, dirty smirk written across his face.

You can’t help but laugh, giddy off of the weight of the moment. Before tonight, you’d begun to accept that you might have been slightly delusional when it came to Declan - reading into his fingers brushing yours when you handed him something, him winking at you across the room, his palm pressing into your back as he walked past. Now you know - it wasn’t delusion. They were signals.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Secret’s safe with me.”

He pecks your lips again quickly before standing up, outstretching his hands for you to grab so he can pull you with him.

“You wanna go back inside?”

“No, think I’m done for the night.”

“Will you let me walk you home?”

You look at him smiling down at you all soft and sweet, and realise instantly that you’re in trouble. This isn’t something either of you are going to be able to just brush past. This’ll be haunting both of your memories every single day until it happens again.

“I’d like that.”

“Come on then, sweetheart. Lead the way.”

Declan links his fingers with yours, happy to let you steer him in the right direction. Neither of you say much. You don’t need to.

The way his palm fits perfectly against yours tells you both everything you need to know.

@lostinthefandoms11 @prettycoolgirl @buzzcutlip

Sitting on my bed, I hear footsteps scurry up to my door and just past it. They come to a halt, turning around and stopping in front of my door, casting a shadow of small shoes that I can see through the crack. There is no knock, and I can see the small pair of feet hesitating to make their next move. I bite the bullet, calling out a “hello?”, to which the door opens and Madeline makes herself known. She holds her bottom lip between her teeth and her hands are wringing together endlessly. The rims of her eyes are red and her eyebrows are furrowed. The sheer amount of emotion in her little body breaks my heart. 

“Madeline, what is it love?” I pat the empty spot on the bed next to me and she takes no time running up and jumping to take the place. 

She says nothing, just buries her head in my side as I wrap an arm around her, pulling her securely under my shoulder. I hear a shudder of breath and I realize that she has begun to cry. Whatever emotion she carried with her down the hallway has decided to spill out, and I squeeze her that bit tighter. 

“What is wrong Madeline? We cannot fix what ails you if you keep it to yourself”. 

“I hate it!” She exclaims, bashing a fist on my duvet. 

“Hate what?” 

“I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!” She exclaims again, causing quite the dent in my bedding for such a little fist. 

“My love, look at me please,” I release her from the guard of my arm and grab the sides of her face lightly so she may look at me. Her eyes are wet and her lower lip has started to quiver and I fear she can hear the sound of my heart splitting in half. 

“I hate that Mummy and Daddy do not smile at each other, I hate that Andrew hasn’t looked at me and I hate that I cannot see my friends! I hate being stuck here!” I am now aware of my own lower lip starting to tremble as Madeline pulls her face away from my hands. I cast my glance at my bedding in hopes of masking my tears but I fear it is pointless when I hear Madeline’s unabashed sobs. The pain of my family had not escaped me since this whole ordeal had seen the light but I had been so wrapped up in my own form of pity that I had not taken the time to properly care. 

“I am so sorry Madeline, I was not aware you had acquired such pain,” I mutter through tears. “It is my fault, it is entirely my fault,” I try to give her a hug but she merely runs out of my room and down the hall, leaving me to cry on my own. 

At the Bridgerton House 

Benedict had spent much of the last few days wracking his brain for ways he could help alleviate some of Emmeline’s burden and he had not eaten or slept much because of it. It was a relief that Anthony knew of the whole ordeal so any transactions made in favour of it would not have to be kept hidden but Benedict could not help feeling like this was his solution to bring forth. If he hadn’t been aware of it before, Benedict had quickly come to despise the ache in his heart, the gaping hole that Miss Castillon had left. Knowing the truth of the matter somehow only made it worse as he knew she blamed herself for it entirely. Seeing her in such pain was something he never wanted to witness again and he swore he would never if he could help it. 

Benedict sits uncomfortably in the chair where he normally sketches, running his hands over his face as he glances out the window, hoping it would bring him some sudden illumination. As if the universe could hear him, his mother walked in, the creaking of the door giving her away. 

“Benedict my dear, can I speak with you for a moment?” She questions, not moving much past the door. 

“Surely you will speak whether I consent or not,” he mutters with a dismissive wave of his hand. Then, taking a moment to consider what he has just said, “apologies, Mother, recent events have made me weary”. 

“I can imagine,” she sympathizes. “Though I fear you are overcomplicating the matter”. 

“Whatever can you mean?” 

“You love this woman, do you not?” She looks expectantly at her son. 

“I…we had never declared it…” he notices her raised brow, “yes, yes I believe I do”. 

“And does Miss Castillon share your affection?” 

“Selfishly I like to think she does,” then, upon remembering a previous conversation, “yes, she does”. 

“Then what you must do seems clear,” Lady Bridgerton seems satisfied, as if whatever truth she thinks she has unveiled is as obvious to everyone else. Benedict ponders for a moment, not wanting to question his mother further but also trying to find the hidden meaning in her words. 

“Oh for pity’s sake, you must marry her!” 

Benedict’s eyes widen, searching his mother’s for any sign of jest. When he finds none, he lowers his head for a second, the idea of proposing to Emmeline sinking further into his skin. Of course there is a part of him that wanted to propose to her long ago, or maybe skip the engagement all together and simply run away from the prying eyes of the ton. But with the idea being brought out of his head and into the open, he suddenly couldn’t fathom it. 

“What if she feels it is out of a sense of obligation? I could not do that to her! I could not have her believe that I would want to force her into a loveless marriage,” Benedict sighs. 

“But if your feelings are true, then they will show through instantly. The circumstances leave much to be desired, certainly, but true love has risen above worse. It will be worth it”. 

Benedict looks up, making eye contact with his mother as his heart starts to race. He could propose to Emmeline this very minute and solve both of their problems. Hers, the debt and his the heartache. Christ, why had he not thought of it before!

Castillon Residence

Marie insists on getting me ready each more for some sense of normality but I cannot say I am any help. I merely sit, anxiously twiddling my thumbs and unable to make eye contact with just about anyone. Whatever decisions she presses toward me I mutter, yes, and hope that she will pick between the dress colour or the hairstyle for the day. I dare not make another decision, lest that should sink my family further into ruin too. It is not as if there is anything to get ready for either, for we have not been invited to any social events since Lady Whistledown aired our news. We wouldn’t have attended anyway, and I suppose it feels better not to have to reject any offers. I do nothing but read in my room or attempt to write sad prose in an effort to vent my emotions, but it is not long before my brain switches to more anxiety inducing efforts. What if Benedict had not truly meant his wishes to help? What if he had seen how I was not worth the effort and had in fact found an easier debutante to court? What if his mother had suggested he not involve himself so that they could avoid the scandal as well? I would not blame him if he had, and I do not want to think ill of him but with nothing else to occupy my thoughts, what else am I to do?

Since Madeline’s emotional revelation, the rest of the family seems hesitant to interact with me other than awkward pleasantries and pitied looks. Marie is truly the only one to actually speak to me as if I am a member of the house and I cannot return the same kindness. I feel stuck in this loop of sadness and anxiety in a hole that I dug myself. If only I had not forced Papa into that deal, then we would not be in this situation to begin with. Tired of sitting in front of the window, hoping for some saving grace to break through the glass, I turn to my writing desk instead, drawing out a paper and ink set in the slowest movements possible. 

Dear Benedict, 

I realise it has been only days since your visit, but I wanted to make it known how much I regret bringing you into this mess of mine. It is not, nor has it ever been, my intention to bring shame to you or your family, and though I thank you for your promise of assistance, I also understand if your desire has shifted. Should you have moved on for the sake of better prospects, know that I do not hold it against you and wish you all the joy and happiness in the world. 

Your dearest friend, Emmeline C. 

Handing the letter off to Marie in the hopes that it would sneak in our limited communications, I wipe my cheek with the other hand, hoping the wetness that had clung there is not too obvious. When Marie returns, she informs me that my parents are requesting my presence downstairs. 

“They told me no details miss, only that they require you straight away”. 

“Well, I suppose I should be glad that someone still wishes to speak to me. Except you, Marie; you have continued to be a dear friend and I fear I have not thanked you enough for it”. 

She smiles, waving her hand dismissively. “Think nothing of it miss, it is only my pleasure”. 

With a small smile and a grateful nod, I make my way down the stairs. The halls are eerily quiet and I cannot help the small glances in hopes that a sibling will come barreling down in joyous laughter. Of course, that is not the case at present and I feel like the only person in the house as I go to join my parents in the drawing room. Upon turning into the doorway, Mama and Papa stand up from their seat on the couch, and Papa has a few letters gripped aggressively in his fist. Mama looks proud as she greets me, offering a small hug before gesturing for me to sit across from them. A sinking feeling appears in my stomach, as her seemingly sudden change in attitude has me on edge. 

“Now my dear, we know it has recently been hard on you-” Papa starts, but Mama looks eager to interject. 

“But we have found a solution!” She all but exclaims, bringing her hands together on her lap as if she cannot contain herself any other way. Papa looks slightly uneasy, and I try and wordlessly beg him for a quick answer. I am not granted such ease. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bridgerton Residence

“It seems like you are set on this matter,” Anthony looks at Benedict with a close-lipped smile. 

“I am. I had worried about it before, but Mother convinced me it is the right way forward,” he replies, pouring another glass of brandy for them both. 

“Then to the success of your courting,” Colin raises a glass, winking at his brother in support. 

“To the success indeed,” Anthony adds as the knocking of three glasses sounds through the room.

“Let us hope your intended sees similarly about the whole ordeal to you,” Colin says as they each take a seat. 

“I believe she will. Once we get past the uncertainty of it all, I believe Emmeline will share my affections, bringing relief to us all”. 

“Yes, then perhaps we can stop finding pieces of her inanimate form on the floor,” Anthony jests at Benedict’s abundance of sketches of the young woman. 

The three laugh and talk amongst themselves, sipping on celebratory drinks while two of the brothers pester for any ideas on how the wedding will go. Benedict mutters something about leaving it up to their mother before adding, “I would marry her in an abandoned field, or in our living room even. The details do not matter to me, but she deserves better. Besides, Mama will have my head if she does not get a say in the marriage of her children”. 

“Benedict,” Eloise pokes her head through the door, “there’s a letter here for you”. She hands him the enclosed document as he quickly rips the envelope open. Recognising the handwriting, he cannot tell whether to be joyful or anxious at Emmeline writing to him during such a time. As he quickly scans the page, he finds the latter to be a more fitting emotion, and the concern of his siblings grows solely in response to the look on his face. He passes the letter to Anthony, who scans it with the same intensity, only to pass it to Colin upon completion. 

“She feels I have neglected her…forgotten about her in some way,” Benedict sighs with a large amount of air, his hands running fervently through his face and hair. 

“She simply worries for the implications of her current affairs. Any person in her position would do the same,” Anthony tries to calm his brother down. 

“She means to provide some relief to you both, should things not go as planned,” Colin adds, reading the letter again before handing it to Eloise. 

“Perhaps she-” “If you are about to rant about the downfalls of marriage, I urge you to hold your tongue,” Anthony whips his head around to Eloise, where she stands stunned. Never had any of her brothers been so serious with her and she immediately closes her mouth again. 

Benedict could not look at any of them for long, as his shoes undoubtedly run a hole into the ground with his incessant pacing. What was meant to be a celebratory evening had come to a halt and the other three Bridgertons share a concerned look between them before facing their brother again. 

“Surely this just means your plans may need to hasten along?” Eloise tries again. 

“I had been trying to plan a near perfect proposal, but if she harbours any doubts of my character or intention, I must squash those immediately”. 

“Go to her in the morning, for if you leave now you run the risk of rejection from her mother for calling at an indecent hour,” Anthony reasons. 

“But I cannot leave her to feel such shame any longer!” Benedict cries. 

“You know how against visitors they are at the moment, it would be better to wait! You would face less obstacles if you went at proper visiting time,” Colin agrees with Anthony. 

“Fine, first thing tomorrow then,” Benedict replies after some hesitation. Eloise crosses to him and holds his elbow in her hands, getting him to pause in his physical loops.