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"Lord Bridgerton," you formally greeted, chuckling in amusement at the eye roll he gave you. There was really no need for you to address him so properly, as you had been friends for years: you just liked getting on his nerves. "Having fun?"

You did your best not to laugh at the incoherent grumbling he replied with, making it clear that the answer was a no.

"I see your sister and the Duke have quite taken to each other," you noted while moving closer to him, watching as they swept across the dance floor.

He let out a scoff of disbelief at your words. "Hastings should have very well known that she is off limits. He's nothing but a rake, he'll never truly care for her."

You let out a soft hum in agreement as you took a sip of your drink. "Still, it's nice to see them so happy. And with him watching her, she doesn't need a chaperone." You added the last bit in a much lower voice for only Anthony to hear.

It was difficult to miss the way he seemed to perk up at your words, his grumpy demeanor disappearing right before your very eyes. "What exactly are you trying to suggest?" He asked in a curious whisper, doing his best to remain stoic despite the way his mind was already starting to race with the possibilities.

The corners of your lips curled upwards into a sly smirk. "Perhaps I should just show you what I mean."

A loud thud echoed throughout the small guest room the two of you had snuck into as you pushed him up against the wall, his face covered with a giddy grin at the action. Anthony let out a muffled moan of delight when your lips met his, allowing himself to let go of the stress that had been building up in him over the past few days as he melted into your touch.

"It seems as though perhaps we were the ones who needed a chaperone more than Daphne did," you commented with a smug smirk, visibly pleased with yourself for being able to unravel the eldest Bridgerton so quickly.

He groaned when you pulled your lips away from his, his desperate nature making him unable to handle even the slightest bit of teasing. "Hush, you," was all he managed to mutter before pulling you back in for another needy kiss.

When the two of you returned to the ball later, he was much calmer and a lot less tense than before, a look of content on his face rather than his almost constant gaze of disapproval.

"I see my brother appears to be much more agreeable now than he was earlier," Daphne said when she took a break from dancing with the Duke to have a drink. "I don't suppose you had anything to do with that?"

"I may have played a small part in helping him to unwind a bit," was your casual reply, choosing not to elaborate any further than that as you watched him chat with his mother from across the room. His face flushed slightly when his gaze met yours, and you could practically hear Lady Bridgerton's concerned tone ask him if he was feeling alright.

You couldn't help but think yet again about how ironic it was that out of the two of them, the Viscount evidently needed a chaperone a lot more than his younger sister did.

End notes: god I'm such a whore for this man I swear

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I discovered Jonathan Bailey was a tactile person the way one discovers gravity.

It began with hands on my waist when we stood together in queues, fingers brushing the small of my back as we crossed streets, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles on my wrist while we talked to other people. Not possessive. Not performative. Just… constant. As if the world made more sense to him when he was touching me.

Tonight, though, it was on full display.

The premiere lights were blinding, the carpet a slick ribbon of black stretching beneath our feet. Cameras flashed like distant lightning. Jonathan stood beside me in a beautifully tailored suit, calm as ever, his smile warm and familiar and his hand firmly at my lower back.

“You alright?” he murmured, leaning close so only I could hear.

I nodded, though my heart was racing. “I think so.”

He squeezed gently. “Good. You look extraordinary.”

I laughed softly. “You’re biased.”

“I’m correct,” he said easily, eyes sweeping over me with such open admiration that my cheeks warmed instantly. “And if I don’t say it every five minutes, I might explode.”

Before I could respond, someone called his name. He turned us both smoothly toward the cameras, never letting go of me, his arm sliding around my waist like it belonged there.

“Jonathan! Who’s this?” a reporter asked, already smiling knowingly.

Jonathan beamed. “This,” he said, glancing at me with unmistakable pride, “is Y/n my girlfriend.”

The way he said it unhurried, delighted, utterly certain made my chest ache.

He introduced me by name, fingers tightening slightly as if to anchor me while flashes erupted. Every time I shifted, he adjusted with me. When I tucked my hair behind my ear, his hand followed, knuckles brushing my shoulder. When I laughed at a comment from the press, his thumb pressed gently into my side like a secret applause.

“You’re very tactile,” I whispered at one point, teasing.

He leaned down, lips close to my ear. “Only with you.”

That shouldn’t have undone me the way it did.

We paused for photographs, and Jonathan turned fully toward me, hands resting on my waist as though we were alone.

“Chin up, darling,” he murmured. “They should see your face.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You are,” he said fondly. “And it’s criminal.”

He brushed a kiss against my temple quick and instinctive before remembering where we were and pulling back with a sheepish grin.

“Sorry,” he said, unrepentant.

I shook my head, smiling helplessly. “Don’t apologise.”

“Good,” he replied. “Because I won’t stop.”

Inside the theatre, the lights dimmed and the buzz softened. Jonathan guided me to our seats, his hand slipping into mine, thumb stroking the side of my finger in slow, soothing motions.

“You nervous?” I asked.

He nodded. “Always. But less when you’re here.”

That simple honesty made me squeeze his hand.

“You were brilliant,” I said quietly. “I know it.”

He smiled at me then, softer than he had all night. “You’re very good for my ego.”

“And your nerves?”

“Especially those.”

The film ended to thunderous applause. Jonathan exhaled shakily, then turned to me, eyes shining.

“Come here,” he whispered.

He pulled me into him, forehead resting against mine, arms wrapped around me as though the entire room had fallen away.

“I’m so proud of you,” I said.

He kissed my cheek, then my jaw, then unable to help himself pressed a lingering kiss to my lips, applause roaring around us.

Afterwards, at the afterparty, he barely left my side. If someone spoke to him, his hand found my back. If I drifted, he followed. At one point, I realised he was absentmindedly smoothing his thumb along my knuckles while discussing cinematography with someone.

“You know everyone’s watching you show me off,” I teased later.

He raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said simply. “They should know how lucky I am.”

I blinked. “Jonathan.”

He smiled at me that earnest, devastating smile and brushed his nose against mine.

“You are stunning,” he said, not lowering his voice at all. “Inside and out. And I won’t pretend otherwise.”

I laughed, overwhelmed. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he replied, echoing my thoughts, “you’re still holding my hand.”

I looked down. I was.

Later, when the night finally wound down and the noise faded, we slipped into the back of a car. Jonathan immediately pulled me close, arm wrapping around my shoulders, my head fitting beneath his chin like it had always belonged there.

“You did wonderfully tonight,” he murmured.

“I just stood there.”

“You stood there beautifully,” he corrected. “And you let me touch you constantly without complaint.”

I snorted. “I didn’t say I minded.”