𝐸𝑙𝑙𝑒

Benedict has the sort-of lopsided smile and charcoal-dusted fingertips that you could only imagine fit for an artist. You remember a particularly engaging conversation you’d had with him months prior, viewing a brilliant aquatint from a past exhibition. It was the work of an up-and-coming Italian artist whose name was Barone—a satirical portrayal of the Parisian ballet. While you were more interested in the content of the work—the grotesque curvatures of the dancer’s face forming a perpetual jester’s mask—Benedict was all the more fixated upon technique. From what you can recall, he was wholly unimpressed with the lot—pieces no. 1 through no. 5. All lacking the diversification of color values, or texturing, or depth, or whatever else artists are often inclined to nitpick. So, it’s familiar: the echo of his voice down the chamber of the gallery. It piques your attention.

With Anthony, you’re entirely less familiar. Unfortunately so. If ever you’ve seen Anthony Bridgerton—at the park, at balls, or most commonly at the Bridgerton estate—it has been in mere glimpses. The version of him that exists in your memory (that which you fixate and faun over) is no match for the version before you. Whilst you've grown familiar with the curled coif of Benedict’s hair and how his smile lines dig trenches into his cheeks, Anthony’s appearance is an enigma to you. It stuns you, the sight of him outside, framed by the morning sunlight. How frustrated he looks. In the doorway, Anthony looks like a foil to Benedict. While his brother is rounded in the face and of a more slinky stature, Anthony is made of straight edges and tension; it’s clear in the composition of his stature—chin held high, chest puffed. He grits through Benedict’s antics belligerently.

“It is easily ascertainable,” Benedict lectures—a professorial manner about him. He gestures grossly, pinching his fingers together and airing his open palms around, to prove his point: “History demonstrates that you love a woman of the arts. We need not get into the particulars of the who or when—or the intimate qualities of the aria.” His address is abruptly halted by a quick whack! to the back left side of his head.

The aria. The opera singer, you recall, was one of Anthony’s more significant flings. There had been countless rendezvous between the two lovers for the span of six months. And, while the rest of the ton was left virtually clueless, you had been clued in explicitly about the entirety of the affair. You’d gone to the opera house just once with Eloise, accompanied by the Bridgerton children, their mother Violet, and the owl-like Lady Danbury—who had been particularly impressed by your exceedingly graceful composure. Anthony and Benedict were, thankfully, absent—having been invited out to the parlor for gin and poker.

Sandwiched tightly between Eloise and Hyacinth in the box seat, Eloise was sure to fill in the blanks for you. Anthony, seduced. Siena Rossi, seductress. And Violet, very, very livid. The critics in the papers had nothing but compliments for Siena Rosso’s performance—“her delivery of bel canto is of aesthetic perfection”—to which Eloise responded with equal measure. After the curtains had dropped for intermission of the matinee, she brashly squawked: “She sounded no more aesthetically perfect than a hungry goat.” This earned a stern talking to after dinner, a short period of thirty minutes where Violet instructed you to sit in the drawing room with the rest of the sisters while she eagerly reprimanded Eloise. The last mention Eloise had made before Ms. Rosso wavered altogether out of either of your imaginations: “Maybe his next pick of the season will be an acrobat. At least then we could attend an entertaining show.” Still, the opera singer Siena Rosso was much closer in age to Anthony than you were—and, frankly, much more titillating than you could ever think to be.

Benedict rubs the point of contact gingerly—as if prematurely massaging the bruised aftermath of Anthony’s swatting. “Earned. That was earned. But, I simply mean to say that she is one such woman. Mother already adores her, no thanks to sister’s influence.” You would guffaw, had the distance between you and the boys been any further. Benedict can’t possibly be recommending you to his older brother—but? By the sounds of it, he is. “Plenty of handsome qualities,” he grins, counting the fingers on his right hand, “Well-read. Frequents social events—but stays not so long that she might implicate herself as desolate. Can easily command a room—I’ve seen it myself. A tasteful amount of wit.” It is not as much of a commendation as Benedict thinks it is.

“We have met, you know,” Anthony retorts. And, so, he has taken note of you. Pleasing to hear, but not altogether surprising at all. You’ve called upon the Bridgerton family countless times since childhood. What conjures a sizable flush out of your cheeks, though, is the fact that Anthony makes no effort to discount Benedict’s points. He simply sits with them as they are—without protest, and without a fleeting remark flagging his disinterest.

Though, his haughtiness makes Benedict scoff. “Yes, I’m aware. I’m simply making observations you might not have noticed prior.” Anthony is silent, seemingly mulling the idea over in his head—whether of you or the situation altogether, you can’t be sure. It’s impossible to deduce, watching as he uncuffs and re-cuffs his sleeves in light of Benedict’s (quite bold) suggestion. 

Finally, Anthony comes to a conclusion; at the clap of his hands, he proposes: “I’m to run into town to deliver papers to the banker. Do yourself a favor, brother, and empty your mind of this scheme. It’s by far your worst.” The complete and utter avoidance makes Benedict grunt with dissatisfaction. Anthony makes sure to lay a consolatory pat on the side of his brother’s bicep, before descending down the steps of the entryway. At the whinnying horses and clattering-away of the waiting carriage, Benedict is left to his own devices.

“I’ll see you at home,” he murmurs just beneath his breath—before trekking forward into the greater interior of the gallery lobby. 

When the time is right—Benedict’s front peering just past the corner hiding-spot you’ve made for yourself—you pipe up: “Tasteful wit?”

Benedict turns his head to meet your voice, a pleased smirk dawning across his face. Of course, you’d been listening. He bows towards you, arms flushed to his sides, before peering up to meet your gaze. The coy way in which his teeth glint out in his smile—the kind only a fairytale wolf could own—gives him away; he’s all too amused, despite his chivalrous movement in your presence. If you weren’t bound by social standards, you’d swat him just as Anthony had five minutes prior. But, since you are, you merely settle for a motionless and emotionless facade. Benedict straightens back up from his cordial bow.

“Do not misunderstand me, friend. It’s entirely a compliment.”

“It’s the lingering shadow of a compliment, if anything.” Benedict is amused by this—shrugs it off, as if being heckled. This, you know, is one of Eloise’s greatest peeves with regard to her second eldest brother and his perks. At your dissatisfaction, Benedict offers, “‘Tasteful’ is preferable to an altogether lack. You’d rather I deem you dim-witted?”

“I’d rather you avoid implying that an excess of wit might make me unsuitable for the market.”

“I’ll add: a brilliant conversationalist. Will that mend my prior offense?”

“It’ll do, for now. Might I inquire about your intention here? You’ve disrupted a really quite tranquil hour for me.” You begin to set off down the barrel hallway of the gallery, half-feigning your captivation with the oil paintings set upon the walls; you trace your gaze across the canvases, around the hand-carved frames, toward the gas lamps lining the walls—and you find that you cannot focus on any of it at all. You can hear Benedict scramble to walk alongside you. Though he keeps a socially-respectable distance away, his words are all the more intrusive.

“Well, my brother—” he starts.

“Colin?” you interject, flatly.

Benedict sees right through it. “Anthony,” he corrects you, “is in quite the spat with our mother. And, for good reason. The recovering rake that he is—“

“Ben.” You’ve already pieced together exactly the demand Benedict is trying to make toward you, and you absolutely cannot stand for it.

Yet, he continues to lay it out plainly for you: “Winter’s coming to an end. You’re one-and-twenty now, and the social season’s arrival is approaching. Your coming out—“

“Please, don’t mention it.” The mere thought of that getup your family has arranged for you, hanging sweetly off your painted-blue armoire, threatens to send you into a fit. It’s all you’ve been dreading: the dress, the head-feathers, and the satiny-white heels—and the image of you walking in graceful strides down the center of the gathered ton. It isn’t so much the ensemble itself as it is what comes after. Presentation to the Queen, attendance to every ball, being called upon by suitors, and an inevitable betrothal.

You turn away from Benedict—out of annoyance or out of the burgeoning fluster threatening to radiate off of your cheeks, you can’t be sure. This stops the two of you at a rather serene landscape: a stoney lodge in Belgium, topped with a generous powder of first snow. You’d much rather climb through the frame and into the scene before you; at least, then, you’d be able to find respite from Benedict’s ceaseless probing. But, there you are, regretfully, by Benedict’s side—chewing the flesh of your inner-cheek just thinking about your nearing debut.

“I am aware how much the mere thought of it terrifies you so,” Benedict says gently. “It would really be a mutual arrangement.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” You’re afraid you do understand—and you want him to expand no further.

Finally, Benedict crosses his arms, “Let my brother court you, for no more than a month—two, if need be…” You abhor the way he says it—as if he’s arranging to sell a plot of farmland. All business. “He needs to prove to my mother that he will fulfill his duty as Viscount in due time, and you want to delay marriage for the time being—which is a shame, might I add. I’d sweep you up myself, if we weren't so kindred. I understand your delusions of art and travel—and of nourishment of the soul.” Benedict gesticulates outward with his hand to the exhibit hanging around the both of you; it is a reminder that, though he’s really very unbearable most of the time (much too teasing for his own good), he is an artist at heart. You do get along.

And, it is logical. If Anthony were to court you for a short time—just strategically placed after your debut—you’d be able to fend off suitors; maybe, you’d be able to fend off suitors long enough to escape for Bath, or some other far-off retreat. You’d heard during Daphne’s year—again, from an ever-amused Eloise—that he had a particularly ardent way of dismissing suitors. He’d be perfect. You want to do this favor for Anthony—you do—and, really, you yourself would benefit from the entire arrangement.

Still, the mere thought of the preposition conjures a sweat above your brow. You rub your gloved hands against one another, trying to ease yourself out of your anxiousness. “You couldn’t ask anyone else?”

“No one would be quite as confidential about it as I know you’ll be.” It’s a blessing and a curse to be trusted and praised by someone, as Benedict does you. Finally, you turn to look at his face—an attempt to ascertain the amount of conviction that he has for this little scheme. In truth, the level of care Benedict has for his brother’s affairs is admirable. You could try to entertain him.

Benedict raises his finger. “And, do not act as if you wouldn’t revel in the attention from our dear Anthony. Even if it is a sham.” The sentiment dulls just slightly.  You wonder if he’s trying to send you into a fit. Though, Benedict’s right. You’re quite aware of how much you’d enjoy it. Aside from the obvious stresses it poses upon your friendship with Eloise, the mere notion of Anthony doting on you is enough to make you giddy. 

In adolescent years, it hadn’t been uncommon for you to be around him. It was a usual sight: Anthony chasing Benedict and Colin across the park, while you, Daphne, Eloise, and Francesca—occasionally, Penelope Featherington if her mother permitted—ate fresh berries atop cotton blankets. Or, the lot of you would be in the Bridgerton’s drawing room—Eloise attempting the piano forte and the rest snickering along to the misplaced notes. There’d even been a year when—unattended, during a medical emergency with one of the staff—you convinced the boys to let you join them for a game of catch. You were playmates, then. You thought nothing more of him, than being a particularly nice son of the neighbors—the perfect little copy of his father, the Viscount. Dark features, and no taller than you were.

After the late Viscount Bridgerton’s passing, he seemed to… withdraw. Anthony, though still attached at the hip to his brothers and sisters, seemed elsewhere. Having been brought into authority at such a young age, he appeared to have separated himself from the frivolities of childhood. In those years, you’d made sure to dedicate your time towards just about every other Bridgerton sibling, while Anthony remained dutifully on the sidelines. You try to recall it—how he’d skirt around your visits, and how there’d always been some other occupation needing tending to. If ever there was an opportunity, Daphne would try to rouse him into being with you all. You can’t remember a time when he yielded.

Of course, there’d also been the four years Anthony had departed for Oxford—and came back a taller, more educated, and all the more reckless version of himself. You have reason to believe the fixation started there—during the soirée the family arranged for his first night back. Eloise had insisted on your presence, and you obliged. It was a small gathering; they had made sure to adorn the estate with arrangements of calla lilies and wisteria. You’d gotten that first glimpse of him over a dim-lit dinner.

Anthony had grown. You had, too—enraptured by the arts and literature of the age; your friends, the Romantics, had you unwittingly attached to beauty, nature, and the sublime. So, upon sight of one Anthony Bridgerton—smirking and tipsy off his mother’s aged wine… plainly, he was handsome in a manner that you couldn’t have anticipated. Though he would always retain the stubborn and protective nature that you had witnessed as a child—that much you could see in his eyes alone—Anthony had become searingly attractive.

Eloise had used the soirée as an excuse to smoke out on the old swings in the back of the house. You always denied her, staying far away enough as to avoid getting the scent of ashes on your gown, but nonetheless stayed to converse with her. She complained most about how much her eldest brother wasted his time in college on booze and women. Though you’d agreed heartily, you found your mind drifting off to his broad-shouldered frame, hand wrapped around the tulip wine glass, dark eyes… Now, you think that Benedict must have caught on to your adorations; earnestly, you hadn’t done much to conceal them. You let your eyes return back to this wintery Belgian landscape—you recall now that the piece is titled Snow in Ardennes—and try to settle with the situation at hand.

“You have a terribly disagreeable personality, Benedict.”

“He would agree. You’ve got much in common.” Beside you, Benedict’s coat ruffles as he adjusts his lapels. He lets out one last breathy chuckle, before looking back down the hall behind you both. Though it’s still early morning, the gallery is sure to see visitors soon. Benedict admits, “I’d better see myself to a separate area of the gallery, lest someone spots us fraternizing and deem impropriety.”

—

It isn’t long before the Bridgertons have called on you for supper. Though, the invitation is conducted through the Dowager Viscountess Violet Bridgerton, Eloise who requests your presence week-to-week, ardently in search of company; now, though, you’re wholly convinced that Benedict has pulled some sort of manipulative strings to get you over to their estate. 

At the table, you’re quite determinedly sure of the plot. Benedict makes a passing thought about the Queen that strikes his mother into a passionate lecturing about debuts—just as the waitstaff bring in the pheasant and roasted chestnuts on silver-patterned platters. She implores to you, cheerily, “You must tell us about your dress; I am sure that your family has fussed over the entire ordeal. I remember just last year when we arranged for Daphne’s; it took about a month to decide on the right fit: the detailing of the bodice, the lace for the trim… Now, for Eloise’s—”

“Must we bore her with the details.” Eloise plainly rolls her eyes, ever so unenthused with the idea of being a debutante—just as much as you; her younger siblings, too, chatter away aimlessly about the game of toss they’d played in the morning, or the fox Gregory swore he saw peeking at them through the thicket in the gardens. Francesca seems rather engaged with their conversation, though altogether retreated into her own breed of silence. Eloise scrapes her fork rather in a laborious, grating motion across the ceramic plate before her. You can see the smug grin on Benedict’s lips just threatening to break into a laugh, just hidden by the lift of his wineglass for a brief sip.

You jump to save Eloise the shame—and to scorn an all-too-cocky Benedict: “I’ve made several visits to Madame Delacroix.” Benedict nearly coughs up the wine back into the cup, placing it back down with the dab of his cloth napkin over the corners of his mouth. Touche. He furrows his brows, gifting an overly joyous smile to his mother—who can only give him a concerned three blinks, before returning a loving eye to you.

Violet is nothing but agreeable: “She is Mayfair’s best seamstress.” 

“And, a good friend, at that. She’s done a fine job of designing the dress. I believe I’m to have one last fitting before it is ready to wear,” you explain. There’s a stall in the conversation—a silent lull as the Bridgerton mother watches you with an expectant gaze. “Right. Well, it’s a very white, long dress. Much like any other.”

“You can impart upon us much more than that,” Benedict scoffs. Violet seems to scrunch her face in mortification towards his callousness. Hyacinth and Gregory halt in their little prattling amongst one another. Their second-eldest brother is acting uncouth in his words, and far too comfortable toward their very eligible guest. 

Eloise sucks in a deep breath: “Brother, do not pester—” It appears rather clear that she’s entertained by Benedict’s jab at you, but her mother’s presence at the table compels scorn. It’s feigned, of course—but still, scorn.

“She’s merely acting modest because she does not want to render herself in vanity. She’s naturally eloquent about the fine details of art,” Benedict insists rather ardently. Eloise guffaws. It’s quite the compliment, and you can feel a timid smile perking up on the corners of your lips. Violet doesn’t seem any more taken aback—rather, she’s pleased by the defense, curving her gaze to receive your opinion. Francesca, in her spectatorship, can only discreetly side with him, turning to you with a most engrossed look. Go on, she seems to urge you. 

“Well, Madame Delacroix has gone through extreme lengths to obtain a fine brocade silk with pure silver thread for the skirt. The embroidery is rather beautiful, foliage with heraldic deer patterned into the bodice to reflect my family’s crest. She’s sewn Baroque pearls into the train to frame the scene. It’s an elegant use of space.” Truly, you could go on for ages about it. Madame Delacroix is an artist in and of herself. But, you must reserve at least a bit of your humility. Shortly, you assure: “Sure to impress the Queen.”

Violet softens at your attitude, a little grin adorning her face. You cannot tell the source of her satisfaction—whether it’s contagion of enthusiasm on your part, or your altogether balancing out Eloise’s dissent. As far as you understand it, both likely play part. Critically, Violet tells Eloise: “Now, dear, if you could practice a similar joy about the debut, it might fare much more enjoyably to you.” Eloise can only raise her hands up in a lighthearted exasperation. “Mama, please, spare me—”

And, at that, the interrogation about your debutante status comes to a swift close. You’re inclined to look at Benedict most questioningly, but what you see looking back at you is… curious. Benedict is entirely enraptured in your appearance. Your half-bewildered eyes, and the way that you’ve released your own keenness and retrieved it back into your shell at the drop of a dime. He could almost be fascinated, but the intrusion of your gaze quickly waves away his trance. Benedict returns to his plate, fork and knife upon the pheasant. The two youngest Bridgerton’s appear bored enough by the lack of entertainment to return to their bickering.

There’s a bit of rustling from the front doors of the Bridgerton estate—the sounds of footmen’s greetings, the neighing of a stable horse, the click of hard soles on marble tile. Anthony appears in the doorway of the dining room, as stern as ever. You almost want to curse your own luck; you’d gotten far enough through the dinner without his appearance, and now, you are plagued by the realization of it. He is often absent from the dinners—either tucked away at his writing desk, or mucking about in the more unfamiliar boroughs of Mayfield. Seeing him before you now is most unexpected.

“I’ve done a fine job handling the land arrangement with Lord Garrison.” You can see Anthony’s eyes flit down to you passively, moving down the table to his family. You almost think yourself a phantom, some sort of invisible presence at the table, until Anthony fixes back on your straightened stature. “Good evening.” It’s curt—lost and nearly started—the way he chooses to greet you. There’s an unsettling sensation, heat crawling from your bosom to your neck, and all the way through to your cheeks.

You nod graciously, “Good evening, Anthony.” 

“Yes, good evening, brother,” Benedict beams. You are reminded concurrently of the scheme. A most good evening, by his terms.

Anthony tugs the chair at the head of the table out and planting himself firmly onto it, before serving his own plate. If examined carefully, you’re sure that you might see the minuscule twitch of his left eye, a lingering effect of his suppressed vexation. He continues on about Lord Garrison: “Of course, he’s still just as much penny-pinching as he was last year, I believe our brief time at the horse races today granted him a particularly generous mood.”

“Dear, I think it best not to dwell on your financial conquests over dinner. Especially among guests,” Violet places lightly.

“My apologies. You’re completely correct, Mother.” Anthony reels back, before hosting a more enlivened look upon his face to match his mother’s demands. Fork and knife in hand, he looks out to the rest of his siblings—Benedict, most of all—before he turns pointedly towards you. “I should not want to bore you with the particulars of my day. I’d much rather prefer to hear about something more refreshing.”

Benedict is sure to tug at the corner of the lace tablecloth. “We were just on the topic of debuts, were we not?”

“Oh, save your prattling, please. You’re just as bad as she is,” Eloise groans, the sleeve of her evening dress nearing very closely to the nearest basin of potato stew.

“Well, this does concern Anthony quite as much as it does you, sister,” Benedict denotes, “He must be well-researched in the novel set of eligible ladies to the cream of the crop, as it were. I do have my fair share of suggestions—”

“Brother, your insistence is rather improper given our present company.” Anthony does not even think to spare another glance in your direction, despite how patently Benedict’s misconduct seems to concern you. He seems almost ill-tempered in his reaction, large brown eyes bore into Benedict’s. Only then do you recognize Anthony’s lapse in knowledge. He is not aware in the slightest of your present awareness of Benedict’s scheme. Benedict himself is clearly basking in the drama of it all, toothy grin adorning his face. How he loves to vex Anthony so.

“It might do us all well to refrain from talk of this season’s coming out in the present moment,” you figure, “There’ll be plenty to be had in the coming months, with the forthcoming sequence of balls needing attending to.”

There’s a quiet and quaint little cough that comes out across the table from you. “I’d much rather discuss the recent correspondence that Colin sent to us. His writings about the Gulf of Corinth were most compelling,” Francesca decides. Timid in nature, it is clear that she has gone out of her way to service your flustered mood. Distraction—a brief respite from the stresses caused by her eldest brothers. You’re indebted to her for it.

—

You spend a considerable amount of time in the upstairs of the Bridgeton estate after dinner. Eloise is insistent on keeping you locked away in her room, so that she can tattle on profusely about the many privileges her four brothers have in their masculine autonomy. God forbid, she says, a woman wants to divert away from the acceptable social course. It’s so awfully dull. You quite find her correct in the assertion. And, you’re rather glad that she’s chosen to save you the grief of asking why Benedict is so avid towards you tonight, of all nights. Maybe, the behavior is so glaringly usual that she cannot seem to perceive any difference.

When it finally reaches late enough in the evening to bid yourself out, you find yourself stepping down into the main hall with a rather reserved disposition. The maid sent with you is nowhere to be found, likely in the downstairs quarters with the Bridgerton’s many housestaff finding a well-needed respite from the day. This leaves your social restraint relaxed for the time being. You approach steadily down the steps of the grand staircase, all but assured that your presence in the main hall is solitary. The ground floor is altogether silent too, save for the hushed murmurings wafting over to you from the old study.

It does not take long for you to trace the origin, just as you did in the gallery. But, this time, your presence is easily detectable. By the time you can place the voices, Benedict is already halfway out the doorway of the study, shoulder leaned on the decorative frame. He is… only minimally sober, a wide smirk adorning his face. The buttons of his pale-white shirt are twice undone, suspenders swinging loosely at his hips. You can see the musculature of his chest just hidden by the airy fabric, and it is almost impossible not to gawk at the sight.

“Now, get in, quickly,” Benedict whispers, free hand flapping about to try and urge you into the study. You find yourself looking around the all-too-empty hall again in search of any staff. With none floating about to police any ill-conceived actions, you rush in past him. It’s only then that you can see Anthony’s frame, just by the writing desk. Benedict shuts the door closed behind you. There’s a certain feverishness about you that cannot be suppressed. Anthony has one hand propped up on his hip, and the other dragged over his mouth. His unfamiliarity with you can only be accompanied by pure vexation. You should not be in the study unaccompanied. You cannot help but callously warn: “If my maid finds me unattended with one of you, let alone two, I will not be let out of our estate for an inordinate amount of time.”

Benedict waves his hand, “Oh, do not fuss. I only mean to take a measly few minutes, anyway.” He drops his whiskey glass down on the table with two fine clinks. “If we are all up to speed, generally, then the agreement should be agreed upon. We shall have it out. Now.”

“All up to speed.” Anthony echoes, finger tracing around the lip of his own glass. It shows plainly in the furrow of his brow and the way he bites the inner flesh of his cheek that he is displeased. He cannot even think how Benedict might have clued you in on his elaborate scheme. But, he now understands: you have been briefed on the why’s and the how’s of the matter. He huffs softly, “My brother has clearly gone mad. I’m confident that you’ll be better off without his near-insanity. Especially in your first social season out.”

Benedict tuts: “I do have to disagree. I think it is a quite brilliant invention of mine that isn’t receiving nearly enough support.”

Anthony cannot bear to look Benedict in the eyes. Instead, he seems fixed on you. “You’re completely perfect”—you want him to stop there, at perfect, so you can be cradled by the care in his words—but Anthony tacks on: “to debut. You need none of these frivolous plans that center wholly on maintaining my reputation.”

“It isn’t centered wholly on you. In fact, it’s probably only two-thirds,” Benedict corrects.

“Brother, you speak out of turn.”

You must interject: “As preposterous as it seems, Benedict is right. I am just as averse to the market as dear Eloise is. I simply have the upper hand in being able to conceal my true emotions.”

You wonder how well it is that you conceal this: the simple fact that you find yourself enamored with Anthony in this moment. There is something enrapturing your attention: his sternness. He is livid, not at you, but at the mere thought of your self-compromising. Anthony plants his glass down on the writing desk, too; for just a moment, you seek the fine details of his hand—its sheer size, gripped around the body of the cup, and how the ring on his finger seems to glint in the candlelight. You must cease the temptation immediately. He’s addressing you, and you cannot implicate yourself in any kind of attraction. Lest, he catches on.

“I cannot do this,” Anthony refuses,” Whether it is a favor to me or to yourself. It is not only a pointless pursuit, but a reasonable potential for scandal. It would do us both well to be rid of it.” His obstinance is not at all shocking, but still succeeds in quieting you down. You know still from childhood that it is not possible to make Anthony change course of mind. In an instant, not without the belligerent rise and fall of Anthony’s chest, he whisks away—slipping out of the study with only a thin opening of the door.

With its harsh tug shut and the ensuing silence, you can only look at Benedict in such a doe-eyed way that he bares his teeth in an exaggerated frown. There is only so much he can do with his brother’s walled-off rejection. “Do not mind Anthony. He is simply too moved by the fact that he might have you to himself for the season. I would be just as delighted,” Benedict hums, “If I were him, of course.”

—

You are grateful for the brief period of respite between this conversation and your debut. It is considerably lucky that the Bridgerton’s time is occupied for the forthcoming weeks with Eloise’s own debutante affairs—no short of fussing. It is regrettable, however, that you do not see her until the very climax of the month—in the waiting room, with all the other white-clad young ladies and eager mamas. While your own chaperone is busy locating water for the second eldest Bridgerton sister with Violet, you’re doing your best to keep your friend company. “Are you feeling quite well, Eloise? You look as if you could faint at any given moment.”

“Oh, I shall not detail the particulars of my discomfort to you now. I am attempting to recite a passage from Wollstonecraft in my mind now, to ease the nausea. Please, pay me no mind.”

“I believe it is Penelope who recommended keeping one’s hands relaxed and rested on approach to the Queen. Any sort of mindless fiddling comes across as shaken nerves,” you try to tell her.

“Yes. Hands, relaxed.” Eloise is nothing but mechanical in the response. Though, you can see her clench and unclench her fists sequentially. There is an invisible rhythm with which she does so, silent and sweating.

You soften your tone. “Remember. I am to debut first, then you three after. Between those three, I will be here, by your side, to make sure that you do not feel any more alarmed.”

“Though it’s quite admirable that you want to stay by my side and ensure that I do not soil any of Her Majesty’s planters, I must insist.” Eloise’s words conjure particularly sour looks from nearby debutantes, who altogether do not want their gowns to get soiled, either. You have to stifle the small chuckle that puffs itself past your lips. It is altogether laughable, but you should avoid being so cruel to your dear and nauseated friend. Eloise makes sure to shoo you away with a haphazard wave of her palm, while her other palm rests in unease upon her abdomen.

It isn’t long before your turn strikes to be presented to the Queen. Violet takes your place at Eloise’s side in no time, and your chaperone waits imminently at the door for you to join their side. It is all rather overwhelming, how you are summoned to the entry, how you can feel your chaperone’s hands smoothing over the back of your dress and running down the back of your corset to check the tidiness of the ribbon. It’s with a blurred bout of movement that you pass through the threshold of the doorway, wishing dearly that there’d been some sort of rehearsal in place.

Of course, you’d never actually been to a debut before your own—without prior example from your family. You could not have expected to be faced with such a beautiful scene. The Queen herself is flanked by ladies-in-waiting, like the symmetrical wings of a fallen angel. There seems to be some aesthetic perfection to the layout, no doubt purposeful. You cannot let your eyes wander too widely across the expanse of this room. But, in one way or another, it cannot be helped. You’re inclined to behold the beauty of this royal suite, so drenched in white and so neatly organized.

The tempo in which you approach the Queen is slow and purposeful. Though you certainly can’t glean the Queen’s thoughts on your debut thus far, she doesn’t appear unenthused—a good sign. Regrettably, though, your eyes pass over to the sides of the room. The Bridgerton clan is settled neatly to your right. And… both Benedict and Anthony are bunched together, side by side, two opposites with their gazes fixed upon you. You can see Anthony straighten up with a deep breath, chest puffed, while Benedict shoots you a wink. Both are equally unhelpful.

Your sweep over the room returns slowly back to Her Majesty. Now, you find yourself right before her, legs bending to curtsy, hands folded neatly over your front. Though you’ve seen the Queen plenty of times before, shrouded in nobility at various different social occasions, she seems particularly focused now, eyes glancing at you up-and-down once. Then, twice.

It is impossible, really, to understand what guides the Queen’s assessment. Whether it’s the windless quality of your countenance, or the fine details of your fingers clasped neatly to drag the skirt of your gown. But, somehow, it seems that your charm has won her over. You bow, and she gifts you with what seems to be a smile. At least, it appears to you that the corners of her mouth have upturned, maybe in subtle admiration. She bows her head back to you, and you are relieved to turn around. 

“A picture of grace. Take note.”

Though your back is to Her Majesty, you can picture it clearly: the way she leans over to her left to murmur it to a lady-in-waiting, whose arms cradle a tannish Pomeranian. The Queen has given your debut her blessing. Part of you feels accomplished in the manner; if this were a competition of sorts, which it is, you’d certainly be of the top contenders. It is the most any debutante could ever ask for. And, still, it nearly frightens you out of your own skin. Her high compliment only means the number of suitors you will attract has been inflated.

It will surely be a long social season.

—

It is rather difficult to hug the wall when expectation compels you towards the center. The best you can do in the first ball of the season is make your rounds endlessly about the dance hall, weaving yourself as if sewing needlepoint through the crowded room. There is a rather purposeful air to this approach that you are taking—a tactical avoidance of any possible suitors through unceasing movement. You are transported, only by memory, to the empty gallery. You’ve been so occupied with the debut that you haven’t had a single morning to yourself to peruse the pieces. You miss it more than ever now, in a space that is so visible and so condensed with socialites.

You are midway between partnered pairs and the punch bowl when the second eldest Bridgerton catches you. Benedict seems to ascertain your exact trajectory and places himself deadset in the way of it. “Might I say, you look remarkably above-ordinary this evening?” Benedict asks you. You are almost tempted to pinch him then and there—but your social setting precedes you. Instead, you settle for the simplest route of action: batting your eyelashes at him as you sip your punch, without another word. It could almost be recognized as coldness, from afar, without clear detail of your feigned annoyance. “Oh, do not disregard me so.” He drops his head back with a groan—face tipped up to the ornately painted ceiling—before raising it back up to face you. “Am I not allowed to tease? You must know that you look exceptionally pretty—even more so than usual, if possible.”

Now, you allow Benedict at least an acknowledgement: “Yes, I am well-aware. Thank you.”

“And, the dress is just as you described,” he gestures a pointed finger toward your gown. “I was very pleased to see you presented to the Queen. You performed the part adeptly. Now, if Eloise could have received that same fate, I would’ve had a most perfect morning. It was quite unnecessary, the interruption of Whistledown.”

How Eloise was spared. You tell Benedict, almost diplomatically, “She is most distressed by the conditions of the marriage market. As am I, and most other debutantes.” You find yourself rather fixed on the pillar behind Benedict, rather than at him.

He scoffs, “I am sure that most other debutantes are positively thrilled at the opportunity to thrust themselves upon the average eligible bachelor. I, for one, have experienced it firsthand.”

“You know much less than you think, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Benedict can only smile at you rather emptily. Maybe, it’s that he does not believe you—or, at the least, does not want to. Regardless, your opinionated jab at his clarified sense of ego makes him altogether speechless. You take the moment of silence to sip your punch, yet again. It is rather rewarding to let Benedict settle in his own humbled state. In your lack of amusement, he seems to fidget with the papery fabric of his collar. Respite from his misstep is found only in the approach of one Anthony Bridgerton, who steps towards the both of you rather determinedly.

Benedict grins—returning back into his prior liveliness: “Brother, you’ve finally come to your senses.”

Not a single word is returned on Anthony’s part. Assuredly, he takes your gloved hand, index finger and thumb reaching for your wrist. You can feel his touch resting quaintly atop the point of your pulse. As much as you try to quell it in that moment, watching him scrawl his name first on your dance card sets it into a quick tempo. You are not sure where to place your eyes. There are Anthony’s pointed shoes, of course. And, the punch in your other hand. 

“And, I believe my senses are guiding me to locate Miss Eloise,” Benedict nods, before ducking his head and finding himself elsewhere.

Still, Anthony holds the same brow-furrowed look that you’re accustomed to. It compels you, very simply, to tell him, “You do not have to do this.” He’s taking far longer than need be to scrawl his name upon your dance card. You get an altogether closer inspection of his person—the thick, brown hair that covers his scalp, the scent of his particularly fir-smelling cologne. Anthony tilts his head up to meet your gaze: “I want to.”

It is impossible for you to not to feel flushed. Rather forcibly, you respond, “Then, you have grown weakened toward Benedict’s ideas.”

“I have only considered them in the most practical means possible.”

“It’s less about your reputation, I’m sure, and more about your mother. Your siblings. Ensuring that the household—your family—is taken care of.”

He lets go of your card gently, and it falls flatly back against your gloved wrist. Anthony hums, “That’s a grand suggestion.” Though he isn’t in the slightest surprise, it is clear that he’s intrigued by your line of reasoning.

Still, you continue on: “You are the eldest son. A Viscount in your own right. You require a reversal in reputation, as I so want a delay to the market.” Though the ball exists in full force around the two of you, there seems to be a temporary lapse in your existence there as debutante and suitor. It feels almost juvenile in nature, as if you’re once again at the Bridgerton estate, no more than ten and two. “I should remind you that my own involvement is still, of course, selfish in nature.”

“Yes. I am aware of that, at least,” Anthony assures. Naturally, he edges away to look around the room, paired dancers, live players. Benedict and Eloise—and, of course, Violet—are still somewhere amongst the throes of attendees. You can’t help but follow his scanning gaze. Silence befalls the two of you for only a moment, before Anthony adds: “That is… the principal reasoning for my change in course.”

“You changed your mind… for me?”

“You have been a friend of my family’s for an extended period of time—since before the birth of little George and Hyacinth. You have supported my brothers and sisters in ways that J cannot measure,” he confesses. “I believe it imperative that I… apologize.” It is foreign, the way the word tumbles out of his mouth. Anthony Bridgerton, apologizing. A surrender of ego.

You almost laugh, out of confusion, nerves, or otherwise. “Whatever would you have to apologize for?” “I am aware that I have acted aloof in a way that has since been irreparable. But, this arrangement offers me a rather convenient and untamed opportunity to afford you the truth for my continued absence.”

“You are different, Viscount Bridgerton.” You do not want to sound so astounded by his so-sudden change in heart, but it simply cannot be helped. He is different, acting as if possessed by some overly kind spirit. You must wonder if there’s something grander motivating his character—morality or otherwise. 

Your wily staring at Anthony is cut quite short by the approach of a gentleman, whose name you believe in Lord Holley. He must be at least a decade older than your current companion, and much more scrappy in appearance. “Anthony. Old chap. I’d like to write my name on the lady’s dance card,” he nods towards you, “If she’ll allow it, of course.”

You are about to retort back a rather confident “no,” when Anthony shakes his head. “I’m afraid I intend to occupy her card for an immeasurable lot of time. It might serve you best not to wait around, Holley.” It is positively shocking, the dedication with which he dismisses Lord Holley—and even further, Lord Holley’s ease of submission. He gives a quick bow, before swiveling on his heel and, in his defeat, sidling up to a secondary choice, one of Cressida Cowper’s little gossips.

As the playing triad of violins slows to a stop in their orchestrations, you can feel your palms sweat beneath the satiny fabric of your gloves. Anthony steps ahead of you, positioning you both face-to-face, with an open hand to take you to the floor. You, of course, are obliged to take it.

—

It is difficult to recall exactly how you spent the entirety of the ball with Anthony. Dancing, drinking, talking. It surprises you enough how simply it all occurs, and with so little foreign feelings toward one another. You even find yourself wondering, in poor taste no doubt, how it would be for you and Anthony to be like this always. Regrettably, it is your natural course of thinking as you make it back to your carriage. With your chaperone still making final goodbyes, you consider yourself fit to wait in the carriage until departure—heels aching from the ceaseless dancing of the night. 

The dancing… that, you can remember, was your least smooth performance. Namely, your prolonged proximity to the eldest Bridgerton garnered the occasional misstep. If Anthony had noted your creative liberties toward the waltz, he certainly had chosen not to mention it. Though your lapses in footing may have been few and far between, you are sure that it would have been all quite noticeable to the trained eye.

Though it is rather looked down upon for you to be in the carriage alone, in skillful avoidance of your lady’s maid and footman, the respite is necessary. The silence is short-lived with the sequential crunching of leaves and swinging-open of the carriage door. You’re almost inclined to grab it back shut—until you see the blurrier movement of your intruder. Benedict launches himself into your carriage with a determinedly strong tug of the velvet curtains over the frosted windows. You must protest. “This is reckless.”

Benedict chuckles as he ties the bottom tassels together, making ample cover for your rendezvous. “It is the dead of night! Nobody will care to peek through your windows. They’re all too intoxicated to even try.” Benedict looks you up and down. “Did you have an enjoyable outing?”

“Well, it seemed to me like a deterrent for attention. A fair amount of suitors found themselves absolutely terror-stricken by Anthony’s constant presence at my side. But…”

“You’re unsure?” Benedict tilts his head.

You explain, “I’m rather convinced that he should proceed with slightly more subtlety. If he behaves any more vigorously than he already has tonight, the mama’s might figure something amiss.”

This only entertains him further. “Then, you’d really be in a crisis.”

“This was your idea, Benedict! It isn’t funny.”

“No, it’s not. I’m sorry. I just can’t help but laugh.” His tone lilts and lulls with the suppression of his chuckles. “You appear so clearly flustered by my brother’s advances. It’s adorable. I believe the phrase is ‘two left feet.’”

“Benedict.” Your cheeks unwillingly flush with heat. The thought of Benedict picking out your poor waltz makes you want to retreat back into the banquet.

He hums, “I only mean to say that you should quell these fleeting concerns about your ballroom etiquette. You’re overcomplicating it.” Noting your unnerved state, Benedict lays his hand down on the skirt of your dress. You can feel his palm brush over your thigh; though blocked amply by layers of fabric, his attempt at a soothing touch only sends you further into your blush. Benedict removes his hand, as if marred by fire. He does not speak of it—only gives you a more serious nod of conviction.

“Many times tonight I saw gentlemen stamping on lady’s toes,” you retort, “Their clumsiness is not so subject to scrutiny.”

“I will teach you to dance. Simple.” He speaks with resolve as he undoes the tassels on the curtain, and hurries himself out of the carriage doors. Your gaze travels straight outside, in a beady attempt to see if your carriage is in the sight lines of any other debutantes or bachelors.

Still, it’s no good distraction. You say, “I know how to dance.”

Benedict  pivots on his heel. “Then, I will teach you to dance better,” he counters. “Now is about the time that your chaperone would be bidding Lady Danbury farewell; I will see to it that I am nowhere to be found,” he grins. “Goodnight.” Benedict shuts the doors with a resolute force, leaving you to your own devices. Maybe, you are confused. You have often prided yourself upon the clarity of knowing where your feelings sit. But, now… the sight of Benedict’s earnest smile as he flees your carriage muddles everything into confusion.

You had spent every summer in the countryside together growing up in that easy, dangerous way - your families so intertwined it was hard to believe you were not all related by blood or marriage. You could still remember it so vividly, the cool splash of the lake, the afternoons playing croquet and horse riding, the nights spent giggling in the drawing room.

As you'd grown older, Benedict had still always been there. Teasing you relentlessly, defending you when society belittled you, finding you in every crowded ballroom just to pull a face to make you laugh when society demanded posterity and dignity. You spent afternoons in the Bridgerton drawing room, arguing with him about art and poetry and laughing at the absurdity of society's expectations - much to your parents and Lady Bridgerton's chagrin.

It had happened so gradually, so naturally, your love blooming like a flower under that gentle summer sun. But now, now you felt like you were always meant to love him, like it was etched into your very bones.

Benedict had always been a 'free spirit'. You knew of his partying and debauchery, learnt of it through Lady Whistledown and your parents who shook their heads and tutted with a 'what is Lady Bridgerton ever going to do with that boy?'

But you'd never paid it much mind. Benedict still snuck out by the swings to meet you, indulged your parents by chaperoning you around the lake. Even though you would never say it out loud, you had always naively thought he was yours.

It helped that you had never met any of these people he was involved with. An out of sight, out of mind mentality was a commonly used coping mechanism in your brain.

That was until tonight.

Her name was Lady Arnold, Penelope had whispered to you and Eloise beside the champagne tower.

She arrived like a ripple through still water - new, intriguing, and effortlessly beautiful in a way that demanded attention rather than asked for it. She laughed loudly, spoke freely, and worst of all - she fascinated Benedict.

You noticed it before anyone else did. The way his gaze followed her across the room. The way his laughter changed when she spoke.

She was older than you, which made her all the more intimidating. She was more mature and sophisticated, and knew what she wanted. And right now, you could tell she wanted Benedict.

You watched as he leant down and whispered something in her ear. She laughed, tilting her head back perfectly, her hand brushing against his arm so fleetingly it almost looked unintentional.

Your chest ached with something unfamiliar, sharp and humiliating.

Jealousy was unbecoming.

Jealousy was foolish.

Jealousy had no place when you had never been his to begin with.

The realisation hit you like a landslide.

How gullible you had been, how cruel of you to sit up on your mighty tower of judgement and look down at other women for grappling with such an ugly feeling.

"Are you alright?"

Eloise's voice yanked you out of your spiral.

"Yes, quite." Your words came out strangled as you forced your slightly shaking hand to guide your glass of champagne to your lips.

"Are you sure? Because you've been staring at Benedict for a good five minutes like you want to tear his head clean off his shoulders."

You blinked, forcing yourself to keep your eyes locked on your closest friend.

"He promised to fetch me a drink, but as per usual it seems he's become distracted." The tone that flowed out of you was one of a disgruntled friend, the eye roll the cherry on top for your performance. You'd spent years perfecting it, so much so that you were convinced Eloise had no suspicion you were pining for her older brother.

Eloise followed your eyes to where Benedict and Lady Arnold stood in the corner. Her nose wrinkled up in disgust.

"Typical." She chortled.

"Do not fret, he will tire of her. She's just the new shiny thing to distract him from his downward spiral about art school and his inability to live up to mother's expectations"

You stifled a laugh at her matter-of-fact tone. "Never change, El."

Eloise's grin brightened at that. "Was never intending to."

But Benedict did not tire of her.

Weeks passed, and Benedict's presence in your life thinned like watered down honey. He was always busy now, sneaking out to see her.

Anger slowly began to build in you. You had helped him through his art school crisis, comforted him when he confessed he felt he was not good enough, listened when he bemoaned of his family's expectations. And yet, here he was, discarding you at the drop of a hat.

Jealousy and anger spread further, an idea born of both taking root in your mind.

"I am going to debut next season." You said before taking a bite of your apricot pastry.

The words fell into the breakfast room like a sugar cube dropping into a teacup. Your mother froze. Your father stared. Eloise choked outright.

“You what?” She exclaimed. "But... but the pact!"

"What pact?" Your mother asked sharply.

You shot Eloise a warning glare. "Nothing mama."

You had been fifteen when it was made - knees muddy from the game of croquet gone awry. Eloise sprawled dramatically on the grass insisting marriage was a ridiculous social construct. Benedict half-listening, sketchbook balanced on one knee. You, stuffing your face with plump raspberries fresh from the Bridgerton's garden.

"No marriage." Eloise had declared. "Spinsters and rakes until we depart this godforsaken earth."

"No marriage." Benedict agreed, flashing an amused grin at you that made your stomach flutter in ways you were yet to understand.

"Ever." You added on.

You hadn't really meant it, you were too young to, but you were eager to agree with the boy across from you.

"Unless our families threaten to disown us, then we will have no choice but to simply marry each other."

He was staring directly at you, that crooked smile still on his features.

"Ew, in your dreams brother." Eloise scoffed as she threw a raspberry at him. "You could never be so lucky."

You giggled, ducking your head to hide your flushed cheeks. Benedict faked an outraged gasp and tossed it right back, although his eyes never left you.

You’d clung to that little comment for an embarrassingly long time, that little shred of hope that maybe, if you just waited long enough, you and Benedict would wed.

But now, now you realised just how much of a fool you had been.

Later, you and Eloise said goodbye to your parents before piling into the awaiting carriage. You felt a thrill creep up your spine. You and Eloise were going to Scotland for the summer with Francesca and John to see his family home.

It was a chance for adventure, a chance for a fleeting escape until you returned to the gossip hungry ton.

You tried not to think about the fact that you had not said goodbye to Benedict.

"Are you debuting because of my brother?"

Eloise's words hit you about an hour into the journey, soft in the velvet padded interior. You startled, jerking your head away from the countryside to look at her.

"What?"

"I know."

The way she said your name so softly after was like a punch to your stomach.

"Know what?"

"That you love him."

You tried, and failed, to blink back tears that unexpectedly sprung into the corner of your eyes.

"I- I thought I was good at hiding it." You managed a half strangled laugh as you wiped away at your face.

"Oh-" Eloise moved to sit beside you.

"You are." She insisted, grabbing a hold of your hand. "I just know you so well. I do not believe that anyone else knows."

You let her wipe your tears away for you. "I am sorry Eloise."

She frowned. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because I- he's your brother and-"

"We cannot control who we love." She spoke with a maturity you had not heard before. “I have grown to realise that.”

You would have to pry behind those shrouded words later.

"Although, I am seriously questioning your taste."

That managed to get a real laugh out of you.

"If anything, it is Benedict who should be sorry."

This time, it was your turn to frown. "Why?"

"Because he does not know what he is missing out on."

"Oh, El." You wrapped her in a tight embrace, tears flowing down your cheeks once more.

"Are you sure you want to debut? Surely you do not intend to marry just to spite my brother." Eloise asked once you had pulled apart.

"That was the original plan." You confessed. "But I- the more I think about it, I have no siblings and my parents are getting older... I need to do what is right. For my family."

Eloise frowned, the speech she had said a thousand times about expectations on women dangling on the tip of her tongue. But when she saw the grief in your eyes, she resisted. You were a nuclear family of three, she was one of nine that was ever expanding. She could not dare to begin to imagine what that was like.

"Ok." She nodded. "If that is what you truly want, I will do all that I can to support you."

"It's what I truly want." You assured her.

"Well that settles it. We will have the summer of our lives in Scotland, our final summer of freedom, and think absolutely nothing about my dimwitted brother. And when we return, we will ensure the entire ton is at your door begging to call on you."

-

Scotland was beautiful, if not a little secluded. You were lucky that you had Eloise and Francesca to keep you company, and endless amounts of sheep.

You had almost pushed the older Bridgerton brother out of your thoughts entirely, until your handmaiden had arrived in your bedchamber one morning with a letter clasped firmly in her worked hands.

"For you, my lady."

She placed it in your outstretched palm.

You visibly flinched at the familiar looped penmanship on the envelope.

"That will be all Delilah, thank you." You murmured, your eyes never leaving the bomb that had just been placed in your hands.

She nodded, exchanging a look with the footman posted at your door before leaving you to your own devices.

You hesitated for a moment. You could just not read it, you could throw it into the crackling fire and pretend it never existed. But you knew yourself. And you knew that you would spend the rest of your life wondering what was in the prose hidden behind the envelope.

So with that, you delicately opened the wax seal to reveal Benedict's scrawling handwriting.

My darling,

How are you?

I cannot believe you failed to mention that you were galavanting off to Scotland with my dear sisters! I had to pry it out of mother one evening after plying her with a bottle of my finest champagne.

How are you? How is Scotland? I hope you have not had to resort to making friends with the sheep and that you are keeping warm, it gets dreadfully cold there, even in the summer.

The ton is quiet without you and El here. It makes me miss our times spent in the country, when our biggest dilemma was how best to irritate Anthony and Daphne.

Now with Anthony in India I have had to assume his viscount duties which I must say, has made me slightly more sympathetic towards my brother. Do you know how dreadfully boring it is making decisions about mending fences and repainting walls? Torture!

I am hoping you are having a glorious summer, but selfishly, I cannot wait for you to return. I really do miss you.

Please make haste in your reply, so I have tales of your travels to distract me from all of this paperwork.

Forever your partner in crime,

Benedict

You put the letter down, staring out at the Scottish highlands. You had no idea how to think or how to feel. It was a lovely letter, but Benedict had always had a way with words - the poet of the family.

He had failed to make mention of Lady Arnold, could it be because they were never that serious? Or because he did not want you to know of his affair with an older widow?

You grasped his letter and marched towards your desk. He could act like nothing was wrong all he liked, but he had failed to acknowledge his disappearing act he had pulled right before you had left.

You dipped your quill into the ink point and hovered over the parchment. You were angry, but it would not be right to make it clear in this letter, not when you were still away for so many weeks. With that in mind, you pressed your quill into the parchment.

Dear Benedict,

It is lovely to hear from you.

I am sorry I did not tell you of my summer plans, it happened so hastily I barely had time to pack my things, let alone tell others.

Scotland is beautiful. Yes, the winds here chill you to the bone, but it makes you feel as if you could fly on their tails.

The sheep are in abundance, but I do not mind them, they make better company than most of the ton to be frank!

I am sorry to hear your duties are dreary, although I am happy to hear Anthony and Kate are spending time in India.

My days are busy here, we are travelling to a neighbouring town tomorrow to explore, so I will probably not have time to write any further letters to you this summer.

I will see you when I return home. Try not to get into too much mischief while I am gone!

Warm regards,

You signed your name with a flourish and re-read your letter once, then twice, then a third time just to be sure. It was the perfect blend of friendliness and polite distance.

All you could do was hope you had done enough to prevent any further correspondence, so you could enjoy the rest of your summer in delusion, pretending that the man you loved did not exist.

-

"Warm regards." Benedict mumbled. "Warm regards?!" He stood from his desk in the Bridgerton study, pacing on the woven carpet.

Your letter was crumpling in his tight grasp as he re-read your delicate writing once more.

At a first glance, there was nothing wrong with it. It was friendly and cheeky and beautifully descriptive, as you always were. But if you looked a little further, squinted analytically at the swirls, Benedict could tell something was awry.

First of all, you never used 'warm regards'. That was a sign off reserved for acquaintances or business partners, or distant relatives you were forced to write to once a year for their birthday. Not for one of your closest friends.

Secondly, you had told him you were too busy to write letters. Never in your life had you been too busy for him. You were always the first to comfort him, to leap at the opportunity to rile his siblings up, to ditch social functions and create your own party, to spend hours debating eachother and helping the days pass.

And lastly, you had not told him that you had missed him too. That could not be right. How could you not miss him? How could you not be sitting there thinking that Scotland would be so much better if he was by your side, because that is all he had thought all summer.

The partying had been fun for a while, but it soon became mundane and tedious. He filled his nights gambling or sleeping with whoever he first locked eyes with, and his days nursing a foul headache - just to repeat the cycle all over again.

But all he wanted, he had realised, was to spend time with you.

He brought the paper up to his face and tentatively inhaled. He swore he could smell traces of you leaping off the page - a hint of vanilla and sandalwood, the jasmine soap you had used since you were a teenager.

He huffed and threw the letter onto the polished wood of the desk.

"Warm regards... bloody ridiculous." He grumbled.

"Are you quite alright brother?"

Benedict turned to see Colin at the doorway of the study, his brow arched in confusion. Penelope, never too far from her new husband, poked her head in beside him.

"I am fine I-" Benedict cut himself off as he pressed his fingers to his temple, rubbing circles in the hope it might relieve him of his symptoms.

"What does it mean if someone uses warm regards in their letters, do you think?"

"It means.... they are wishing you regards but... with warmth?" Colin suggested, making Benedict roll his eyes.

"But what if, hypothetically of course, they are one of your closest friends who has never used such a... mundane phrase in all their years of living."

Penelope and Colin exchanged glances.

"Maybe they are preoccupied?"

"They might as well have told me to sod off." He muttered, folding his arms across his chest as he stared out the window.

"Maybe you have done something to offend them?" Penelope suggested.

Benedict whipped around in a flourish, pointing accusatorily.

"Why? Has she said something to you?"

"You have not even said who you are talking about, brother.” Colin reminded him.

“But it does not take a genius to figure out who.” Penelope remarked, lips pursed in amusement.

Benedict paused, his mouth agape as he stared at his brother and sister-in-law. They could not possibly be insinuating what he thought they were, could they?

“Children! More letters have arrived!”

The scamper of Hyacinth and Gregory’s feet pounding on the staircase followed Violet Bridgerton’s voice, giving Benedict a reprieve from conjouring a response.

Benedict, Penelope and Colin followed suit, watching as the younger Bridgerton’s gathered around their mother eagerly as she rifled through the stack of envelopes.

“One from Eloise, one from Francesca oh! And another one from Miss Brighton.”

The sound of your family name made Benedict flinch.

“Another one?” Benedict blurted out.

Violet’s brow furrowed at the tone of his voice. "Yes?"

“Implying that she has sent more than one letter?”

Violet glanced at Colin and Penelope behind him who subtly shook their heads.

“Well no uh-“

“I have gotten four from her already this summer.” Hyacinth announced proudly.

Benedict blinked. “Four?” His voice squeaked.

“But she told me that she was too busy to write more letters and-“ He cut himself off when he realised how bad it sounded.

The rest of his family looked at him in shock.

“Oh Benedict.” Violet tutted. “What have you done now?”

He felt a wave of nausea hit him.

There must be some explanation, some mix up. All would be well, he just had to wait until you returned and everything would go back to normal.

You would have another season of shared giggles at the girls and their fretting mamas. Of sneaking out of balls to share a flask. Of afternoons swinging and discussing the best up and coming artists.

But oh, how wrong he would end up being.

-

The announcement in Lady Whistledown sent shockwaves through the ton.

You - the only daughter of one of the noblest families, famously uninterested in marriage - were to debut into society.

Rumours were on the tip of everyone’s tongue, but one thing was almost a certainty, you were no doubt going to be selected as the diamond of the season.

Your mother could scarcely contain her delight. The modiste was summoned. Dresses were selected. Jewels unearthed from velvet boxes long untouched.

And Benedict -

Benedict was blindsided.

He could scarcely believe what he was reading. There had to be a printing error, some sort of horrible prank gone too far.

He tried to talk to you, but it seemed fate intervened at every turn. You were always out at appointments, busy with the modiste, practicing your dance lessons.

Every night, he sat on his swing, staring at the empty one as if he might will you to appear on it. But you never came.

It seemed he would be attending his mother's ball after all.

-

The diamond encrusted mask clung to your face. You could hardly contain your nerves as you stepped out of your carriage and into the entryway of Bridgerton house.

The first ball of the season.

Voices hushed as you descended down the stairs. For the first time you had eyes glued on you at every turn. You knew then that you could not hide in the shadows any longer.

Even with your mask, Benedict could spot you from a mile away, he had stared at your mouth so many times he could sketch it from memory.

His eyes trailed down your figure, lilac silk shaping your body perfectly. Your hair was pulled back in an elegant but simple style. Your decolletage was bare, exposing your collarbones.

You were radiant. Devastating. A masterpiece not even Michael Angelo could replicate.

He stared, openly, forgetting himself entirely.

“Careful brother, you might catch a fly or two if you keep staring like that.”

Eloise smirked up at him.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Eloise watched in amusement as he snatched a flute off a passing tray and made a beeline for you without another word.

Your name falling from his lips made a shiver slide up your spine.

He looked unfairly handsome. Dressed in all black, the tie to his blouse hanging loosely, revealing his toned chest underneath. No sign of Lady Arnold.

“Looks like my attempts to conceal my identity have failed spectacularly.” You answered in greeting.

His eyes roamed your face freely. “I would recognise you anywhere.”

Your heart leapt at that, threatening to crack your ribs open.

“I like your costume.” Was all you could think to say.

“Thank you. I- you look-“ For once, Benedict was speechless. He had so much he wanted to say but no way of wording it.

“Miss Brighton.”

Benedict glared at the intruder.

“Lord Helmsley.” You curtseyed politely.

Lord Helmsley bowed in return, his eyes flitting to the man beside you.

“Benedict.”

“Edward.” He spat out.

Lord Helmsley glanced between the two of you. “I hope I am not intruding-

“Actually-“

“Not at all.” You cut Benedict off, shooting Lord Helmsley a radiant smile.

He blushed under your attention. Benedict’s grip on his glass tightened.

“I was hoping to steal you for the first dance of the evening?”

“I would be delighted, my Lord.” You answered, taking his hand.

You did not spare Benedict another glance.

That night unfolded like a perfectly choreographed performance. You smiled, batted your lashes, danced with the eligible suitors in order of your full dance card.

The rest of the ton watched on, transfixed. Who knew Miss Brighton could be so charming, they whispered amongst themselves.

Even the Queen preened at the sight of you.

And all the while, Benedict watched.

He lingered at the edges of the room, drink forgotten in his hand. Brushing off pestering mamas without his usual charm. His usual ease was gone, replaced by something restless, unsettled.

When another man’s hand settled at your waist during a waltz, Benedict’s jaw tightened. When you laughed at someone else’s joke, his fingers curled into a fist.

He had rarely encountered this emotion. Ever the starving, liberated artist - the prospect of jealousy was laughable. He was carefree, bound to no one, forever indulging in the pleasures of liberation from society's expectations of him that only a second born son could afford.

Until now.

He had always known that he had loved you. But he thought it was something he could keep boxed up. You were always adamant you were never going to marry, and he had his rake-ish ways of forgetting about you, at least for an hour or two at a time.

Watching you with other men unlocked something in him, like a dam wall finally bursting. All of his emotions flooded out with such intensity he could hardly stomach it.

Now all he wanted to do was to cave into social norms - to court you, to call upon you, to make it known to the world that you were his, as he was yours.

It was terrifying.

He finally caught you when another suitor went to grab you a refreshment.

"Surely you can spare a dance for me?" His voice was tinged with desperation.

You looked down at his extended hand, then back up at his eyes looking down at you through his mask.

"I- Lord Townsend is just going to go-"

"-fetch you a drink, yes I heard." Benedict shot you a grin that did not quite meet his eyes. "I will only steal you for a few minutes. I have hardly seen you."

You studied him for a moment. You knew that you could not say no. It was not the polite thing to do.

You nodded, "very well."

He took your hand in his and guided you to the dance floor, the two of you finding the rhythm with ease. From the side, your mother, Lady Danbury and Lady Bridgerton watched on with hawk-like eyes.

"You cannot possibly be enjoying this." His next words came low and urgent, throwing you completely off guard.

You tilted your head, ensuring to keep a smile on your features, "I do not know what you are implying."

"This is not you."

You muffled a scoff that threatened to slip past your lips. You were still in public, with eyes everywhere. Your smile pulled tighter, "Why? Because I have put more effort into how I dress?"

"I- no- that is not what I meant." Benedict panicked. "I just meant, well... since when do you care for society's approval?"

Your jaw clicked as you ground your teeth. "Maybe this is about me doing what I want, not about what society expects.”

"But the pact-"

"-was a childish fantasy."

"Best not tell Eloise that."

You nearly stilled in his arms, but forced yourself to keep twirling to the string quartet.

"Was this why you asked me to dance? So you could lecture me?"

Benedict's face hardened. "I asked you to dance because you do not talk to me. You barely wrote to me over the summer, although you seem more than happy to write the rest of my family. Have I done something to offend you?"

"No."

His eyes narrowed. "You are lying."

"I am not."

"You are."

"Do you not have better things to do than to pester me?" You hissed. "Surely Mrs Arnold is around here somewhere to entertain you."

You regretted the words the second they escaped your lips.

"Mrs Arnold?" Benedict's brow creased. Then it hit him.

“Oh, you mean Tilley?" He let out a bark of laughter.

"Good heavens no I have not seen Tilley since last season, she was just-" He cut himself off when he saw the look on your face. Realisation dawned.

"Is this what this has all been about? Because of Tilley?"

You felt a rush of blood to your face as humiliation coursed through you at the incredulousness in his tone. You suddenly felt childish, immature, like you had sunk to a level so low that someone like Tilley would never dare follow.

By some grace, the song finished before you had to formulate an answer.

"Good evening." You mumbled, curtseying quickly before making your escape.

"Wait-" Benedict reached to grab you but you were already swallowed up by the crowd, Lord Townsend waiting dutifully in the wings to hand you a glass of champagne.

Benedict stood on the dance floor, frozen. His mind raced as he tried to process this new information.

-

The dance did not finish there on the floor of the Bridgerton’s home. Not really. The painful dance between the two of you lasted nearly half the season.

You did everything in your power to avoid him. Not that you had to try too hard. You were so busy with callers that you barely had time to think.

Benedict thought of waiting in the line of suitors outside your home, but the possibility of other mamas getting wind that he might be looking for a wife this season was too much to bear. That was what he told himself anyway, the reality was that he was petrified.

Petrified to admit that he was not looking for a wife because he had found the one he wanted to wed already.

The whole Bridgerton family knew something was amiss. You stopped coming by to check in on Hyacinth’s lessons, or to browse the library with Eloise.

Benedict had begun to drink himself into a stupor more frequently, more family gatherings were missed, his usual cheeky grin absent from his features.

Violet Bridgerton is nosy, so nosy that one day she caves and searches through Benedict’s desk.

“Oh my dearest.” She breathed out when she pulled open the drawer to finds stacks and stacks of drawings. Actual real, complete works of art.

All of you.

-

“Something has to be done about that brother of yours.” Violet remarked one afternoon as she anxiously sipped her tea. “He cannot go on like this.”

Eloise peered over the top of her book.

“Are you trying to ask for my assistance?”

“I am not asking, I am just saying that I would… hypothetically look the other way if one were to… meddle.”

Eloise snapped her book shut triumphantly. “Meddle, I most certainly can do.”

-

You slipped through the hedges into the Bridgerton’s back garden.

You hoped Eloise had not been waiting too long. You had tried not to fret too much when you had received her note asking to meet her here tonight as a matter of urgency, something to do with a matter of the heart.

You could see a figure already sat on one of the swings.

A crunchy leaf snapped under your shoe, making them turn. Your stomach dropped.

“What are you doing here?” You blurted out.

If Benedict was surprised, he did not show it, shooting you a charming grin instead.

“I could ask you the same thing, you are indeed in my backyard after all.”

You stiffened up, cheeks flushing as you crossed your arms in front of your chest. “I will have you know I am meeting-“

“I am meeting my-“

You stopped as you both began to speak, eyeing each other as realisation dawned.

“Eloise.” You said simultaneously.

Despite everything, you both laughed.

“That girl I swear.” You muttered, resignedly taking a seat on the swing beside him.

“She has been hanging around us too long.”

You chuckled again at that, pushing your feet off the ground lightly. Benedict’s eyes tracked your every movement. You stole a glance at him, eyes darting away when you realised his eyes were already on you.

“I am sorry for abandoning you.”

A wry smile appeared on your lips. “You speak as if I am some helpless puppy waiting around to be pet.”

“That is not what I meant I-“ He cut himself, lips pursed. Why could he never say the right thing when it came to you? It was like his mouth was trying to play saboteur.

You skidded to a halt. "I am merely teasing you." You reassured him.

“Teasing or not, I am truly sorry for disregarding our friendship when I was….preoccupied. You did not deserve it and it was not my intention. Please forgive me.”

You sighed, studying the desperation etched on his features. You felt yourself melting at his puppy dog eyes, ones that you had seen a thousand times before.

“You are forgiven. And I am sorry for not telling you I was going to Scotland and not writing to you. I was angry.”

“Thank you.” A small smile appeared on his face. “And Tilley- Lady Arnold and I are finished. Truly. I meant that.”

You picked at the fraying rope of the swing.

“I am sorry to hear that.”

You were most definitely not sorry to hear that.

“Oh pffft no trust me it is fine.” Benedict waved his hand dismissively. “It was never anything serious. Well - she wanted it to be but you know how I am, I cannot be tied down and did not want to hurt her.”

Your stomach dropped at his words. Of course it had nothing to do with you, only his fear of commitment. You bowed your head, nodding stiffly.

“I see.”

He studied you expectantly for a moment, not noticing the change in your demeanour.

“So… we can go back to normal then?”

You finally looked up at him at that.

“What do you mean?”

“Well... you see I did not intend to break the pact so... you need not break it either.”

“I do not understand.”

“I just mean, there is no need for you to carry on with this facade.” His face was hopeful, egregiously naïve. “We can go back to being partners in crime, making fun of mamas and spiking the hideously sugary lemonade.”

You frowned as you stood up from your swing, the energy shifting between you two into something darker.

“It is not a facade, Benedict. I intend to marry.”

He looked up at you in shock.

“Why?”

“Because I am the only heir to my family name. I have an obligation to find a suitable husband. I was just too childish to realise it until now.”

“Well-“ He stood up with a start frantically. “You have time, you do not need to rush these things.”

"I have debuted, I must take a husband this season or risk becoming the laughing stock of the ton."

“But...why can we not go on as we were?” He almost sounded childlike in his question, his eyes brimming with confusion.

“What? Me clinging to walls, hanging around for your amusement whilst you go and bed whomever you like, whenever you like.”

His neutral features faltered. “That is not fair.”

“Is it not? You forgot I existed the second there was a woman you deemed more worthy of your attention."

“I thought you had forgiven me.”

“I thought I had too.” You fired back. “But clearly you do not understand what it means to be a friend.”

“A friend?” He asked quietly, the word rolling slowly off his tongue. “Is that really what this is about?”

His question made you dizzy. You were not ready for this confrontation, for the verbalisation of years of longing and resistance.

You straightened up and stiffly curtseyed. “It is getting late. I must bid you goodnight.”

His name fell from your lips, reaching for you as you stepped out of his reach.

His hand fell to his side as he watched you go. This time he did not try to chase you.

"How could you have possibly messed that up?"

Benedict whirled around to see Eloise marching across the lawn.

"Were you spying on me- ow!" He exclaimed as Eloise smacked him across the arm with a hardcover book.

"Honestly I always knew you were an idiot but I did not realise how much so."

"What are you talking about?"

"Judging by her reaction I am assuming that you did not tell her you loved her." Eloise spoke plainly.

Benedict balked. "I do not know what-"

"Oh brother please, enough. The two of you are so busy pining after one another it honestly makes me ill."

He stared at her, jaw slack.

"Well? Why did you not tell her?"

He let out a defeated sigh. "I do not know."

Eloise's features softened.

"I once told you that you would never be so lucky as to wed someone like her. But she loves you, I know it. I can see it. This is your chance to finally make her yours."

"I just...I just need more time."

"Time is the one thing I do not think you have brother."

The next morning, Lady Whistledown published that a proposal to Miss Brighton from Lord Helmsley was imminent.

Benedict knew then that Eloise was right. He was out of time.

-

The energy felt different at the next ball, charged with something electric - dangerous.

You felt his gaze the moment you entered the ballroom, embossed in sequined silk.

His eyes never left you. Watching as you laughed perfectly, watching the way you tilted your head back, exposing your neck like you were begging for someone to kiss it, watching the way your lips gleamed in the candlelight.

He could not bear it any longer.

As usual, you were surrounded by suitors. Although this time, you'd had not one, not two, but three dances with Lord Helmsley.

You were on your fourth when you met Benedict's eye past Lord Helmsley's shoulder. He was clung to a pillar, looking at you as if you were a painting he had walked past a thousand times and was only now truly seeing you.

You could feel your defences crumbling. Your heart was racing. Your legs wobbled. Could you really go through with this?

Lord Helmsley seemed nice enough, and he had excellent social standing. But you most certainly did not love him. Could you bear to be surrounded by love matches like your parents and the Bridgerton siblings, knowing that you would forever be denied one?

"Are you alright my lady? You look quite palor."

"I-" You pulled away from Lord Helmsley’s grasp. "Yes I just think I need some air.”

"Wait here, I will fetch you a refreshment."

"Thank you, my lord." You watched him cross the room. The second he was out of view you raced for the door that spilled out onto the courtyard.

The summer night air hit you with dizzying intensity.

The sounds of the ballroom dulled instantly - the laughter, the music, the scrape of expectations - all muffled behind glass and velvet.

The estate was sprawling, perfectly pruned hedges as far as the eye could see. The cicadas seemed to quieten around you. Then, the faintest creak of the door opening behind you.

You did curse then, softly, the word lost to the open air as you straightened and smoothed your skirts, schooling your expression into something neutral.

You did not need to turn around to know who it was. You had known the cadence of his footsteps since childhood - the way Benedict Bridgerton walked like he was never quite bound to the ground.

Your name softly leaving his lips was nearly your undoing.

You twisted to meet his eyes. They were shining with an emotion you did not recognise. You gripped the stone balustrade, willing your hands to stop trembling.

"You should not be out here alone."

You laughed humorously. "I thought you liked me better when I did not care for society's rules."

He took a step toward you.

"The Queen could appoint you her royal rule writer and I would like you."

His confession took you off guard.

You took a step back.

Thunder rolled somewhere distant, low and ominous. The air grew heavy, charged. You glanced up just as the first drops of rain struck the stone at your feet.

"I wish to be alone right now."

“Just tell me one thing.”

He took your silence as permission to speak.

"Were you jealous of Tilley? Is this why you have been avoiding me?"

You forced a scoff from your lips. "Jealousy is unbecoming."

"Or it is a product of passion."

The sky split open. Rain bucketed down, drowning out the quiet hum of the ball inside.

You glanced across the garden to see a small pavillion, no more than a few hundred meters away.

“I do not wish to answer that.”

“Why? Because you do not want to admit to yourself the answer and what that means for us?”

Us.

"You cannot keep running from this."

Surely he would not follow you, not in weather like this. Something in you gave way, your senses tumbling out of your body.

You turned and bolted down the steps, straight into the storm. You were soaked in an instant, the cold water seeping into your skin as the heavy fabric of your dress clung to you like a second skin.

You could barely hear Benedict calling out your name through the downpour.

Your slippers slipped against wet stone, hair coming undone as rain plastered silk to skin. You did not care. You could not care. All you knew was that if you stopped, if you let him reach you, you would shatter.

The gazebo emerged through the rain like a pale sanctuary, its white marble columns glowed faintly in the dark. You stumbled beneath it, fingers curling around the railing as you gasped for air.

Benedict stood at the threshold, rain-soaked, panting, hair plastered to his brow. He looked undone - not the charming Bridgerton, but the man who paced around his studio until dawn and destroyed canvases when they did not live up to the image in his head.

The man who had always been yours.

“Have you gone mad?” Alarm broke through his composure, his eyes wild with panic as he stepped into the sanctuary of the undercroft.

"You would seriously rather court death than speak with me. Do you really hate me so?"

"You know that I do not hate you." You snapped. "And that is precisely the problem."

He stepped toward you, his eyes boring into yours.

"Then do not marry Lord Helmsley.”

The words landed heavily between you.

"No." Your voice wavered. "You do not get to ask that of me."

You shook your head, angry tears spilling down your cheeks, mixing with the cold rain drops.

"I have always been there for you. I have been there while you drank yourself into a stupor and threw away all of your hard work, while you discarded our friendship to take lovers, all the while never asking for anything in return."

Your voice steadied as you spoke, your confidence growing as you watched him flinch at your words.

"And now you ask me to turn down a Lord? To throw a way a safe and secure future? And for what?"

A heartbeat passed between the two of you, your chests still heaving as you stared at one another.

“You are right.” He conceded after a few moments.

“But I will be selfish, like I always have been, and ask you for one more thing. Let me say my piece. You do not even have to listen if you do not wish. But just let me speak these words that I cannot carry around any longer. After that, you may go marry Lord Helmsley, and you never have to speak to me or see me again."

You studied him as the cold began to cement itself in you.

"Please." His voice was barely above a whisper, like if he spoke any louder he would come undone.

Your restraint unravelled, pooling in the pit of your stomach. Your lower lip quivered.

"Very well."

"You are my constant." He began. "My safe space. My best friend. My champion. You are everything but the one thing I have always wanted most. It is cowardice I know. I thought… I thought with our pact that I could have the luxury of being surrounded by you without ever risking losing you. But I know now that is not enough."

Your breath stuttered.

"I told myself you did not need me. That you were too bright to tether yourself to someone who did not know who he was meant to be. How could you believe that I could ever offer you a lifetime of commitment? That I was capable of being the man you deserved to call your husband?"

Thunder cracked overhead.

“I tried to quell it, to drown myself in art and drink and women and men, but I was a fool for thinking that I could try to contain such an integral part of my being."

Rain crept across the tiled floor of the pavilion, pooling at your feet. The world beyond it ceased to exist as he spoke.

"I was afraid. Afraid that if I named it, if I looked at you the way I wanted to, I would ruin it, like I always do."

He crossed the space between you in two strides, stopping only inches away, hands fisted at his sides as if afraid to touch you.

You watched in shock as he reached into his suit jacket, producing a faded yellow piece of paper with trembling hands.

Tears streaked your face as he extended it out for you to take.

You hesitated before delicately taking it out of his hand, scared that it might disintegrate.

It was a sketch. The graphite swirls depicted bright eyes, a wide smile, a berry being plucked. A silhouette of a gown that you had worn to death when you were younger.

"I drew this the day we were lying in our garden, when we made that pact."

You remembered, of course you remembered.

"When I made that joke and looked at you, I realised that there was only one person on this earth whom I would ever want to marry. I have kept it with me everyday since."

You stared at him completely dumfounded, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.

"You are in every sketch I have ever drawn, every line of poetry I have ever written."

He threw his arms up in defeat. "I love you. I have always loved you."

The words settled between you, heavy and irreversible.

He sniffled, pulling his hands behind his back, glancing down at his feet as if he could not bear to meet your gaze.

"I will go now." He spoke more to himself than to you. "I will leave you and Lord-"

"No." You said adamantly as you wiped fat tears off your cheeks.

You let out a strangled huff as you failed to stem your tears. "For goodness sake, what is it with you Bridgertons and having such a penchant for the dramatic."

He stared at you, trying to decipher your words, not risking even the faintest of smiles in case you were about to unleash hell upon him.

The smallest up curve of your mouth gave him the courage to say his next words.

"Did I misremember the fact that you just ran out into a storm to avoid me?"

You could not fight the smile this time, shaking your head in disbelief.

"I wanted to think I could marry someone like Lord Helmsley, prove that I could unravel myself from a joke made to me when I was a teenager that I had convinced myself to be true."

Your heart hammered viciously behind your ribs.

"But the truth is, I love you Benedict. I have always loved you. Loving you is much a part of me as breathing is. I have loved you from my walls and my shadows and I will love you from the centre of any room we are in. I could not bear to ever be with anyone else, I can admit that now."

He took a step closer, so close to you now that you could feel the heat of his body radiating through your soaked dress.

“Not even someone as rich and gentlemenly as Lord Helmsley?"

You bit your lip. “Not even someone as rich and gentlemenly as Lord Helmsley.”

He laughed breathlessly, relieved.

He reached for you at last, hands trembling as they cradled your face, reverent as if you were something holy. His eyes flickered down to your lips.

“Can I-“

“-Yes.” You breathed out. A wry smile twists up on his lips.

“You do not even know what I was going to say.”

You smiled up at him. “I have always said yes when it comes to you and I always will.”

“Now who is the dramatic one?”

“Just kiss me Benedict.”

Never one to deny you anything, his head finally dipped down at your demand. You let out a small gasp as his lips meet yours and his hands pulled you flush against his chest.

His warmth radiated into you from every direction, making your head spin. Your hand clumsily dragged through his wet hair, pulling him somehow even closer. Your other hand still clung gently to the sketch, not willing to risk letting go.

The two of you only broke apart to finally come up for air, chests heaving and cheeks flushed.

His thumb traced your bottom lip, his pupils blown as he greedily soaks in the sight of your swollen lips.

“Would it be improper of me to say you have the most perfect lips I have ever laid eyes upon?”

You giggled at that, “I think we have gone past improper already.”

His smile widened, suddenly turning mischevious. “Well in that case-“

“Beni!” You shrieked, his childhood nickname accidentally slipping out as he whisked you off your feet and twirled you around.

He chuckled, pressing his lips clumsily against yours again.

“Also, jealousy is not unbecoming." His smirk widened. "In fact, I think it suits you rather well.”

Your eyes flashed up at him playfully.

"Do not get any ideas Mr Bridgerton. That was enough jealously to last me a life time."

Benedict smiled down at you as he placed you back down onto your feet. For the first time all evening, the restless energy that had always seemed to live inside him was quiet.

"I vow that you will never have a reason to be jealous ever again Miss Brighton." He said lightly, brushing a rain-soaked curl from your cheek.

Thunder murmured softly in the distance, but the storm was already beginning to ease, the rain softening to a gentle patter around the pavilion.

"You do also realise." He continued after a moment, his voice low, "that the entire ton will think we have indeed lost our minds if they see us like this."

For the first time, you properly looked at the state of the two of you - soaked to the bone, hair a mess, cheeks flushed.

You shrugged.

"I think they held that view of us long before tonight."

A laugh escaped him then - warm, breathless and utterly boyish. The sound made your chest ache in the most wonderful way.

"Good." He drew you closer, his arms tightening around you as if he feared you might vanish if he loosened his grip. "Then I wish to take you back inside and dance with you."

His smile was not the easy, careless grin he so often wore at social functions, but something softer. Quieter. As though a weight he had carried for years had finally slipped from his shoulders.

"So you can show Lord Helmsley that a proposal would be unwise?"

"No, although that is a perk."

He lifted your hand to his lips. His kiss was soft this time, lingering against your knuckles.

"So I may spend the first evening of the rest of my life dancing with the woman I love."

You looked up at him, heart full in a way that felt almost overwhelming.

"Well then, Mr Bridgerton." Your hand slipped into his, squeezing firmly as you guided him back toward the garden path.

"You had better keep up."

You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.

He never does.

More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”

Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.

“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.

“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”

You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”

“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”

Your frown deepens at his joke.

“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.

“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”

“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.

“I just gotta go now. Okay?”

At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”

Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.

You stew in his absence and forget to eat.

Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.

You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.

Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.

You don’t move for six minutes straight.

He timed it.

“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.

You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.

“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.

Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”

“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.

He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.

“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”

You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.

“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.

It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.

“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.

You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”

“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.

“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”

“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”

Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.

The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.

“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”

“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.

Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.

“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”

The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”

“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.

“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.

“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”

It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.

It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.

Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”

“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”

“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”

By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.

If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.

So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.

Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.

Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.

You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.

“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.

“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.

You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.

“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”

“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”

Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”

“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.

Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”

“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”

“He’s gone, kid…” Robby tells you, voice taut. “It’s okay.”

You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.

“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.

“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”

“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.

“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”

You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.

“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.

“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.

“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.

“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”

Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.

Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.

Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.

The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.

You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.

“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.

Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.

“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.

Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.

“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”

“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.

It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”

You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.

With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.

Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.

“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.

“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.

You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.

“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”

You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.

You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.

The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.

“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”

You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.

“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”

“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”

“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.

“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”

Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.

“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”

“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”

“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.

You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.

“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.

“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.

“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.

“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”

“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”

“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”

“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.

“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”

You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.

“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.

You nod once.

“What about a headache?”

“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”

“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”

You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.

“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.

Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.

“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.

“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.

“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.

You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.

“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”

“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”

He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?”

“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”

“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.

“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”

You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.

“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”

Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”

“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”

Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.

His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.

You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.

“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.

“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”

“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”

“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”

“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”

“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.

“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”

“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.

He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.

You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.

Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.

“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.

“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.

“I’m sorry about, Louie—”

“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.

His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.

“Do what?” he asks.

“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”

(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)

“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”

Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.

“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”

“I didn’t bail on you—”

“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”

“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”

“It wasn’t.”

“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.

“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”

“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”

You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.

Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.

“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”

“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”

“Because you aren’t acting like it—”

“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”

“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”

“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”

You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.

“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.

The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.

Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.

“What?”

“Honey.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”

“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”

“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.

You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.

“Ow,” you whimper.

“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”

“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”

“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.

“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”

You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.

“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.