#bridgerton reader

you were seized into a pure white dress with a long train and a even longer veil. expensive flowers imported in and violins that made your ears bleed. your watch, gregory’s pocket watch ticking in your clasped hand awaiting for the right timing to flee. as promised, he will be outside with his families’ horse and carriage. a rogue way to escape and not wind up in shackles of a loveless marriage.

the garden walls could not handle a reckless and free spirit like yours. no help over the stone, only pure adrenaline as if you was crawling out of your gravestone. kicking behind your silky flats and veil at the tomb.

it had been an easy escape, your gloveless hand clasping onto gregory’s. your other hand, lifting up the skirt portion of your white gown as you climbed into the carriage. his hand clenching and unclenching after you slipped your hand away from his abruptly. the men on horses behind you had gained, only a short distance. hooves kicking up the dust, leaving statements in the mud. the horses underneath the angry men was the one to suffer from their abuse.

you called out to the coachman from inside the carriage, “faster, please.”

the carriage bumped gregory closer to you as the horses slipped off the beaten path. clear out into a field, filled with shadowed trees and barbed bushes. one that the bridgerton hid behind as the men rode past.

unclasping the harnesses from two horses out of three. you sent the bridgerton coachman back to the wedding. the coachman’s job was simple, conceal and buy the youngest bridgerton and the runaway bride some time. the field had been empty, no movement besides a light breeze. hooking your sock-cladded foot onto the stirrup, pulling yourself on top of the seat. the left behind man had trotted past desperate to catch up to the others.

your unruly hair whipped in the wind as you disappeared into the sunset, running away with the youngest bridgerton.

a man stopped in his tracks, one you’ve probably seen amongst the sea of people that was betting against you. one that you opted to not remember. his gaze darted all across you’re face. “have we met before?”

“i am afraid not.” you smiled sweetly. the man had tipped his hat, apologized for mistaking you before continuing on his cane.

gregory pipped up beside of you. “what was that about?”

“oh, i am certain it was nothing. the man merely got confused.” your hands clasp behind your back in faux innocence, before you continue walking.

in the ring you are named sir henry, hair shaved close to the scalp having used botanical mixtures and sunlight to lighten your hair and sporting the same sleeveless shirt that hides just enough that you’re truly a lady. to the ton, you’re the diamond of the season always adored in jewel colored dresses and extravagant wigs. the broad difference between you and the allise you box under.

later that night underneath dim light. bare knuckles rhythmically hitting the sheen of sweat on your opponent’s skin. a chuck of skin torn from your hand after a sharp hit. fresh bruises blooming on cheek.

the man was good—a offense with a sharp right hook. another round started, you defended blows before a sharp and impactful fist of yours hit his face. underground boxing as no rules. you only stepped back when the referee said you won. whistles and disappointment from the sea of english men watching, silenced into your ringing ears.

you didn’t leave until night fell, bruised and sweaty. hands still bleeding, but you didn’t take a second to address the wounds. just pushing past the heavy crowd, cap low.

“you done well.” the voice popped up behind you, familiar and definitely a bridgerton. daphne. you only spared a glance underneath your hat. her eyes filled with recognition. simon behind her waiting for the carriage. “y/n?”

the first words from you tumbled out, “kill the urge to tell your brother.”

dapahne’s eyes glowed like she couldn’t understand why you would keep this a secret from gregory. “he would be fascinated.”

“i do not wish for him to know that he is engaged to anyone besides a proper lady.”

two days had passed and daphne kept her word. not a muttered word to her brother about the harboring secret. the early sunlight bled into the morning room of the bridgerton’s estate.

“sir henry won again?” anthony echoed from the newspaper, seating on his piece of the settee.

“it’s quite an accomplishment,” daphne pipped up from her macaroon. “apparently it’s never been won like that before.”

“i like to attend at least one.” hyacinth sulked, slumping farther down the settee she shared with eloise.

“do not associate yourself with that kind of person, it’s not a place for a proper lady.” violet’s arm curled around her stomach like she couldn’t bare the thought, pacing by the windowsill.

“lady whistledown.” a handmaid disrupted the bridgerton’s swaying conversation, the latest lady whistledown on a platter.

you question to no one in particular, “has anyone discovered who this new lady whistledown is?”

“no.” eloise shut her book, being the first one to pluck a piece from the tray. she started reading out loud, causing a few groans amongst the bridgerton’s.

“can you not keep it to yourself?” gregory complained, right before eloise froze.

“you’re sir henry?”

eloise’s eyes met yours from across the room, right before the rest of the bridgerton’s stared at you. you snatched lady whistledown’s paper from her hands, eyes skimming it quickly. the diamond of the season is shining more brightly than just one way this season. the soon-to-be bridgerton is hiding a striking secret. she is not as much of a proper lady than she is sir henry, the boxer who has won another match.

“this is…” false. “true. i run under a allise.”

it was pure silence. five seconds felt like a lifetime under the microscope. violet exhaled sharply, anthony blinked like he couldn’t believe it.

“at least your kids will be successful.” hyacinth pipped up, which caused a wave of laughter.

gregory’s eyebrows furrowed, his hand grazing the bare skin of your arm. “you believed that i would be upset with you?”

“gregory, i doubt this is a proper conversation in front—“ violet started.

“we shall marry sooner, that shall overweigh this rumor. together, we could convince the ton that this new lady whistledown is untruthful.” gregory’s voice cut through, more determined than you’ve heard.

you questioned, “you truly believe this will work?”

“i am certain it will.”

hyacinth jumped up from the settee, circling your arm with you. “very well then, my future sister-in-law. we shall get you fitted for a dress while mama plans the wedding.”

Their meetings soon developed a rhythm neither of them acknowledged aloud.

Midnight.

Always midnight.

Some nights they spoke for an hour before parting reluctantly at the garden door.

Other nights the conversation drifted so easily that they barely noticed time passing until the eastern sky began to pale.

What surprised Beatrice most was how effortless it felt.

During the day her life was an intricate dance of expectations.

She smiled politely at suitors who complimented her embroidery or remarked upon the elegance of her gown. She attended musicals and garden parties where the same polite conversations circled endlessly, estates, investments, horses, weather.

But beneath the wisteria she did not need to perform.

She could simply exist.

And John, freed from the constant weight of his role within the household, revealed a side of himself few people likely saw.

He was thoughtful in a quiet way.

Sometimes wryly funny.

And far more curious about the world than most gentlemen she had met.

One evening she arrived to find him standing beneath the archway, studying the blossoms above their heads with quiet concentration.

“You are examining flowers now?” she asked, amused.

He glanced down at her, slightly sheepish. “They smell different at night.”

Beatrice tilted her head thoughtfully and leaned closer to one of the blossoms. The faint fragrance was indeed stronger than she remembered from the afternoon.

“…they do.”

“Many flowers release stronger scent after sunset,” he said. “To attract nocturnal pollinators.”

She blinked at him. “You have an alarming quantity of information about insects.”

“I read when I can.”

“You read?” The surprise escaped her before she could stop it.

A faint blush touched his expression. “Occasionally.”

“What sort of books?”

He hesitated briefly before answering. “Natural philosophy.”

Beatrice’s eyes lit instantly. “Science.”

“Some would call it that.”

“I adore science.”

That earned a slightly surprised look. “You do?”

“I spent an entire winter reading about astronomy,” she said proudly.

His mouth curved faintly. “That explains your questions about stars last week.”

She leaned against the wooden post of the archway, still holding his hand.

“I think the universe is far more interesting than most gentlemen in London.”

John chuckled softly.

The sound was warm and low, and she felt a ridiculous thrill at being the cause of it.

“That is not a particularly difficult achievement.”

Beatrice laughed. She had always enjoyed observing people. It was a habit she shared with Benedict. But John fascinated her in ways she had not expected.

Sometimes he spoke about books he had borrowed quietly from the library.

Sometimes he described strange mechanical inventions he had once read about.

Once he explained how telescopes worked using two pieces of broken glass and a lantern as demonstration.

And sometimes,when the conversation grew lighter, Beatrice discovered something surprising about herself. She became… silly.

Comfortable enough to tease him.

Comfortable enough to laugh without worrying whether it sounded ladylike.

One night she attempted to imitate the stiff bow of a particularly pompous gentleman who had called earlier that day.

John nearly choked with laughter.

“You should not mock your suitors so mercilessly,” he said once he recovered.

“I am observing them,” she corrected.

“That was not observation. That was theatrical performance.”

She grinned.

Moments like that made her chest feel strangely light. And each night she noticed something else.

How warm his hand felt around hers.

How easily their shoulders brushed when they walked the garden path.

How much she enjoyed the sound of his quiet laughter.

Their relationship unfolded slowly. Painfully slowly.

John possessed an almost infuriating sense of restraint.

He allowed small gestures of closeness, holding hands, walking beside one another, occasional quiet embraces when the night air grew cold.

But there were boundaries he refused to cross. Beatrice began noticing it after several weeks. Gentlemen she had danced with in ballrooms often attempted flirtations far bolder than anything John allowed himself.

Lord Harcourt had once tried to kiss her hand twice during a single evening. Another gentleman had leaned suspiciously close while discussing poetry.

John, however, behaved as though the very idea of such liberties terrified him.

Eventually curiosity overcame patience.

They were sitting beneath the wisteria one evening, their shoulders brushing lightly as they watched moonlight filter through the blossoms.

“John.”

“Yes?”

“Why do you never kiss me?” The question slipped out before she could soften it.

He froze immediately.

Then he looked away.

“Because,” he said quietly, “I will not take something that belongs to your future husband.”

The answer surprised her. “You are my future husband,” she said softly without a second thought.

He shook his head at once. “No.”

The single word struck deeper than she expected.

“You deserve a man who can stand beside you openly,” he continued. “A gentleman who can give you the life expected of you.”

“And you believe you cannot?”

“I know I cannot.”

She studied him for several long seconds.

Then, slightly exasperated, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. The gesture startled him so completely he nearly lost his composure.

“That,” she said calmly, “was merely affection.”

He stared at her. “You are dangerous.”

“I have been told that before.” But as she leaned against him again, Beatrice felt something shifting quietly inside her heart.

Because when she imagined her future husband now…

It was John she saw.

Not in servant’s clothing.

But walking beside her openly.

Laughing with Benedict.

Arguing politely with Anthony.

Standing beside her beneath the same wisteria tree in daylight.

She never spoke the thought aloud. But the image returned again and again.

One night their conversation drifted longer than usual.

They spoke about childhood memories, Colin’s endless travel dreams, Benedict’s artistic experiments, Eloise’s fierce arguments about women’s independence.

Hours slipped by unnoticed.

Eventually Beatrice began shivering.

John noticed immediately.

“You should return inside.”

“It is warmer here than my room tonight.”

“Why?”

“Anthony insists the windows remain open for fresh air.”

He sighed quietly. “Come.”

She followed him through a rarely used servant’s corridor to a small spare room. It was simple but warm. Beatrice sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping the blanket he fetched around her shoulders.

Silence settled between them. Eventually she leaned against him. “You may push me away,” she murmured. “If this is improper.”

He did not move. Instead his arm rested lightly around her shoulders. The warmth of him seeped slowly through the blanket.

Minutes passed. Then more.

Eventually exhaustion overtook them both. They drifted asleep fully clothed. Her head resting against his shoulder. His arm loosely around her.

Nothing scandalous. Nothing improper.

And yet for John it was perhaps the most dangerous thing that had ever happened. Because holding her like that made it almost impossible to imagine letting her go.

Not long afterward Benedict returned from the countryside.

Something about him had changed. Beatrice noticed immediately. He seemed distracted. Restless. Quieter than usual in moments when he would normally joke.

Three days later she cornered him in the hallway.

“You have been behaving strangely.”

“I have not.”

“You absolutely have.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just tired.”

“That is a poor lie.”

He sighed. “You would not understand.”

The words stung unexpectedly. “Would not understand?”

“This is… complicated.”

“Then explain it.”

“Bea,” he said finally, frustration slipping into his voice. “You live in a world of polite dances and careful conversations. This situation is not like that.”

“I am not a child.”

“I did not say you were.”

“You implied it.”

He hesitated. Then he made the mistake. “You have never been in love, Beatrice.”

The corridor fell silent.

She stared at him. “You think I cannot understand love?”

“I think,” Benedict said carefully, “you have never had to choose between love and everything else.”

He walked away moments later. But his words lingered in her thoughts.

Oh how wrong he was.

Because hearing them made a realization settle quietly in her heart.

Perhaps she would choose love.

Even if it meant giving up everything else.

Soon after, still determined to help her brother, Beatrice became acquainted with a gentleman who frequently visited the house.

Lord Daniel Harcourt.

He was charming, intelligent, and particularly eager to discuss Benedict’s artistic circles.

Their conversations were pleasant. Entirely innocent.

But society possessed an unfortunate talent for imagination. Within two weeks the ton had decided they were courting.

Beatrice noticed the whispers.

She also noticed something else.

John had grown quieter.

He still appeared beneath the wisteria.

At first.

But something had shifted. He listened more than he spoke. He watched her carefully whenever Lord Harcourt’s name appeared in conversation.

And one evening, after she laughed about something the gentleman had said, John’s expression tightened.

“Perhaps he will prove suitable,” John said quietly.

The words felt wrong.

“He's nothing but a friend John. You sound as though you hope that is true.”

“I hope you find happiness.”

The formality in his voice unsettled her.

“You are being strange.”

“I am being practical.”

“You cannot remain hidden in gardens forever, Beatrice.”

The use of her full name made something twist painfully in her chest.

“And when the right gentleman appears…” He forced himself to finish. “…you deserve the chance to pursue that future.”

Understanding dawned slowly.

“You intend to disappear.”

The silence answered her.

She felt sudden frustration rise.

“You are insufferable.”

“I am realistic.”

Instead of arguing, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek again.

One afternoon, Beatrice walked into the Bridgerton hallway and immediately sensed something unusual.

Daphne stood in the study room looking frustrated. Anthony stood several feet away looking defensive. Between them hung the sort of tense silence that usually preceded a family argument.

“Should I return later?” Beatrice asked mildly.

Daphne exhaled sharply. “I have just witnessed our brother kissing Miss Sharma.”

"I did not!"

"Well with that proximity and tension, you might as well have!"

Anthony groaned.

Beatrice blinked.

“Well,” she said after a moment, “that does complicate matters.”

Anthony rubbed his temple.

“You see? Even Beatrice thinks this is a disaster.”

“I did not say disaster,” she replied calmly. “Merely complicated.”

Daphne crossed her arms.

“You are courting her sister, Anthony.”

“Yes, I am painfully aware of that.”

The conversation continued for several tense minutes. Eventually Daphne left with a final exasperated remark. Anthony remained standing looking like a man who had accidentally stepped into emotional quicksand.

Beatrice lingered.

“You love her,” she said quietly.

Anthony looked startled. “That is absurd.”

“Is it?”

He did not answer immediately.

Beatrice studied him thoughtfully. “You know,” she continued, “sometimes the person we intend to choose is not the one our heart chooses.”

Anthony sighed. “I cannot marry for love.”

“You already have.”

He stared at her.

“That,” Beatrice added gently, “is the problem.”

Later that evening, Beatrice found herself alone in her room replaying that conversation.

Anthony had fallen for Kate with remarkable intensity.

Despite his carefully planned intentions.

Despite society’s expectations.

Despite every practical reason not to.

And that realization stirred an uncomfortable thought inside her mind.

Three seasons.

Three entire seasons within the marriage market. She had followed Daphne’s advice. She had learned how to perform society’s expectations with grace.

She had danced.

She had conversed.

She had accepted introductions to countless eligible gentlemen.

And yet…

Nothing had truly stirred her heart. Not even slightly.

Perhaps I am simply not meant for marriage.

The idea did not feel tragic exactly. But it did carry a faint, unexpected ache. Because watching Anthony and Kate made one thing very clear.

Love existed.

Real love.

The sort that unraveled carefully constructed plans.

Would she ever experience something like that?

Or was she destined to remain the thoughtful observer while everyone else lived the story?

That evening she walked to the garden.

The wisteria branches swayed gently in the evening breeze, their long leaves brushing softly against one another like whispered secrets.

John was already there.

He straightened slightly when he saw her approach. “Miss Bridgerton.”

“John.”

She sat on the familiar bench beneath the tree and sighed.

“That sounded like the sigh of a philosopher confronting the universe,” he observed.

She gave a faint laugh. “Or perhaps simply a woman confronting the ton.”

He waited patiently.

Eventually she spoke. “Anthony is hopelessly in love with Kate Sharma.”

“That seems… inconvenient.”

“Extremely.” She leaned back against the bench. “And it made me realize something rather unpleasant.”

John remained silent.

“I may end up a spinster.”

She attempted to smile. “It appears I have attended three seasons without discovering a single gentleman capable of inspiring romantic interest.”

John felt an odd tightening in his chest.

She continued thoughtfully. “Anthony, of all people, found love accidentally.”

“Yes.”

“So perhaps there is something wrong with me.”

“There is nothing wrong with you.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps I simply think too much.”

John looked at her carefully.

Then he began speaking.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just quietly listing the things he had noticed over the years.

“You remember every servant’s name in this house.”

She blinked slightly. “That is merely politeness.”

“You notice when Mrs. Wilson is tired and bring her tea without mentioning it.”

“That hardly counts.”

“You sit with Gregory when he struggles with his Latin lessons.”

“He becomes terribly discouraged.”

“You stayed up half the night helping Hyacinth repair her broken doll because she believed it was beyond saving.”

Beatrice stared at him now. “You remember those things?”

“I notice things.” His voice grew softer.

“You laugh with your brothers as though they are still the mischievous boys you grew up with.” He hesitated.

“And when people feel uncomfortable in crowded rooms… you are usually the first person to quietly rescue them with conversation.”

The air beneath the wisteria tree seemed to still. John rarely spoke this much. But Beatrice felt something warm settle in her chest.

“You make it sound as though I am remarkable.”

“You are.” The word slipped out before he could stop it.

Silence followed. The kind of silence that feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.

He exhaled slowly.

“If the world cannot see your worth,” he said quietly, “then the world is blind.”

Beatrice’s voice softened. “You speak very kindly of me, John.”

He looked away briefly. “It is merely the truth.”

A long pause settled between them.

Then she said something very quietly. “Would you want me?”

John’s head turned toward her sharply. “What?”

Her voice trembled slightly. “If I truly am destined to remain unmarried…” She attempted a faint smile. “…would someone like you ever wish to marry someone like me?”

The question hung in the air like fragile glass.

John felt his carefully guarded restraint crumble.

More than anything in this world.

The truth rose inside him with frightening clarity.

“If the stars themselves descended to ask what I desire most…” His voice lowered. “…I believe my answer would be sitting beside me already.”

Beatrice inhaled slowly. The wisteria leaves rustled softly overhead. She reached up gently and removed the formal wig he wore as part of his servant’s uniform. His hair fell loose across his forehead. John hesitated before brushing a stray curl away from her face.

Something he had never dared do before.

Something he probably should never have done at all.

But beneath the willow tree, the world felt strangely distant.

Their eyes met.

She did not pull away. Instead she moved closer.

And then she hugged him.

The gesture was so sudden John froze entirely. Beatrice wrapped her arms around him as though seeking warmth. Tentatively, almost reverently, he placed his hands around her waist.

Neither spoke.

In that moment there was no footman.

No Bridgerton daughter.

Just John.

Just Beatrice.

And without announcing it to anyone, not society, not their family, not even fully to themselves...

They began something impossible.

A secret courtship.

Her partner was speaking.

Something about estates.

Or horses.

Or perhaps it was trade.

She could not quite follow the words.

Because her thoughts had begun moving faster.

Everyone sees her.

Everyone admires her.

What do they see when they look at me?

Her breathing grew shallow.

The room felt warmer suddenly.

No—hotter.

The music sounded louder.

Her gloves felt too tight.

The walls of the ballroom seemed to draw closer with every turn of the dance.

Her partner continued speaking. “…quite advantageous this season…”

The chandeliers blurred.

Beatrice’s chest tightened painfully.

Her heart began pounding against her ribs with alarming force.

Why can I not breathe?

A strange dizziness crept through her limbs.

The laughter in the room echoed unnaturally, stretching into something distorted and overwhelming.

She missed a step.

Her partner frowned slightly.

“Miss Bridgerton?”

Her vision tunneled.

Air refused to enter her lungs properly.

The thought arrived suddenly and terrifyingly.

I cannot stay here.

Without fully understanding how, she murmured an apology and stepped away from the dance floor.

The music continued behind her.

No one noticed.

No one stopped her.

Beatrice moved quickly through the hallway, past the entrance doors, past the waiting carriages.

And then she ran.

The night air was cold and sharp, cutting through the suffocating fog in her mind. She reached the quiet garden beyond the estate and collapsed onto a stone bench beneath a large tree.

Her hands trembled violently. Breathing still came in short, uneven bursts. The thoughts would not stop.

You are invisible.

You are forgettable.

You will never shine the way she does.

She pressed her hands against her face.

The tears arrived without warning.

Not delicate tears.

Not quiet ones.

The sort that shook the entire body.

Somewhere nearby, footsteps paused.

John had been finishing a late errand for the household when he noticed the figure in the garden.

At first he intended to turn away. Servants were trained carefully never to intrude upon a lady’s privacy. But then he heard the sound. Not crying exactly.

Something more fragile.

He stepped closer. Miss Beatrice sat hunched on the bench, shoulders trembling, her breath uneven and panicked.

John had never seen her look so… broken. For a moment he hesitated.

Then he spoke quietly. “Miss Bridgerton?”

She startled, wiping quickly at her face. “John?”

Concern tightened in his chest. “You left the ball.”

“Yes.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Forgive me. I know it was improper.”

Improper was hardly the word that concerned him.

“You should not be alone out here,” he said gently.

She laughed weakly. “Nor should I be collapsing in the middle of a dance.”

The word collapse caught his attention immediately. “Were you unwell?”

She hesitated.

Then something inside her gave way.

“I could not breathe.”

The confession hung between them.

John recognized the signs instantly.

Panic.

Overwhelm.

His voice softened. “May I sit?”

She nodded.

He sat on the far edge of the bench, careful to maintain respectful distance. “Try to breathe slowly,” he said quietly.

“In through your nose… and out again.”

She followed the rhythm gradually.

Slowly, painfully, her breathing steadied.

For several minutes neither spoke. The garden rustled gently with night insects and distant carriage wheels.

Finally Beatrice whispered, “Everyone admires her.”

John did not need clarification. “Your sister.”

She nodded. “She makes it look effortless.”

Silence stretched between them.

“And I…” Her voice faltered. “I stand beside her and feel as though I am made of fog.”

John’s hands tightened slightly. Because he understood something Beatrice did not. To the world, Daphne shone brightly.

But Beatrice possessed a quieter kind of gravity. People did not notice it immediately. And once they did, it was impossible to ignore.

He chose his words carefully. “People admire different qualities.”

“Do they?” she murmured.

He considered. “Yes.”

She stared down at her gloves.

“I wish I could stop thinking so much.”

He almost smiled. “That may be impossible.”

She gave a weak laugh. “Then perhaps my mind is my greatest enemy.”

John tilted his head thoughtfully. Then, quite unexpectedly, he said, “Did you know that bees communicate through dancing?”

Beatrice blinked. “…what?”

“They perform small movements to tell other bees where flowers can be found.”

For a moment she simply stared at him. The shift in topic was so absurd that her mind stumbled out of its anxious spiral.

“…why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” he said calmly, “your thoughts are currently racing in circles.”

“That is unfortunately accurate.”

“And if we allow them to continue,” he added, “they will simply invent new worries.”

She studied him curiously. “So your solution is… bees.”

“Yes.”

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. And that small smile felt like a victory. That night did not end with grand actions. John escorted her safely home.

But before she went inside, she paused beneath the wisteria tree. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“For what?”

“For listening.”

He nodded. “It was nothing.”

But for Beatrice, it was not nothing. Because someone had seen her at her worst moment and stayed.

In the weeks that followed, she found herself returning to the garden occasionally after difficult evenings. John would sometimes be there finishing duties.

Their conversations became longer.

Sometimes serious.

Sometimes completely ridiculous.

Bees remained a recurring topic.

Meanwhile, Daphne’s romance with the duke progressed through the complicated path that society would later gossip about endlessly.

Their engagement.

Their sudden marriage.

And eventually, the quiet struggles that followed.

One evening Daphne came to Beatrice’s room looking unusually troubled. “Marriage,” Daphne admitted quietly, “is not as simple as it appears.”

Beatrice listened as her sister explained the misunderstandings between herself and Simon.

The confusion.

The frustration.

The painful discovery that love did not magically solve every problem.

Beatrice offered advice where she could. Comfort where she could not. When Daphne finally sighed and leaned back in her chair, she looked at her sister with a gentle smile.

“You know,” she said, “society never felt easy to me either.”

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “You hid it very well.”

Daphne laughed softly. “I performed.”

That word lingered.

“You may do the same,” Daphne continued. “Until you are ready to face society on your own terms.”

The idea stayed with Beatrice long after the conversation ended.

Weeks later she mentioned it casually during one of her quiet conversations with John beneath the tree.

“Marriage appears far more complicated than people admit.”

John listened carefully.

“And yet everyone insists it is the ultimate goal.” She shrugged. “Perhaps rank does not matter as much as people believe.”

His heart gave a sudden, reckless leap.

“If I ever marry,” she continued with a faint smile, “perhaps I should choose someone simply because he understands me.”

Hope flickered dangerously.

Then she added lightly, “Though I suppose society would faint if I chose someone without rank entirely.”

John forced himself to remain calm. “That would indeed be… unconventional.”

She laughed softly. “Well. In any case, I intend to approach the next season with renewed effort.”

She turned toward him warmly. “And it is comforting to know I have such a trustworthy friend supporting me.”

The word struck him harder than any rejection could have.

Friend.

“Thank you, John,” she said sincerely. “You are truly a wonderful companion to speak with.”

He managed a polite nod. “Always at your service, Miss Bridgerton.”

Beatrice left that evening feeling lighter than she had in months.

John remained beneath the tree long after she disappeared inside. Because somewhere along the quiet path of those conversations, something irreversible had happened.

He had fallen in love with her.

And she had never even noticed.

ps. Last chap, Beatrice wasn't able to find a match, so with the new season, she starts feeling insecure, here John was able to lend an ear. I genuinely don't think it makes sense for Beatrice to immediately fall for John. But, it's still progress for her to see him as a close friend now!

Beatrice’s debut this seasons had been everything society expected.

The gown was exquisite.

The jewels tasteful.

The introductions flawless.

Her eldest brother, Anthony Bridgerton, the ever-watchful Viscount, had stood nearby with the wary expression of a man prepared to interrogate every suitor within a ten-foot radius.

Her sister had whispered entirely inappropriate commentary behind her fan.

Benedict, meanwhile, had leaned against a pillar and looked amused by the entire spectacle.

And Beatrice had smiled.

She had danced.

She had laughed when expected.

She had thanked gentlemen politely for their interest.

Inside, however, she felt an unmistakable sensation.

Boredom.

Not the mild, passing boredom of a long sermon or dull book. This was a deeper, more persistent disappointment, like sitting down for a grand opera only to discover the orchestra had forgotten the music.

Most gentlemen, she discovered quickly, did not actually wish to know her.

They wished to display themselves.

One spoke at great length about the precise lineage of his hunting dogs.

Another proudly explained the annual profits of his estate as though she were a banker evaluating an investment.

A third insisted women should not read novels because imagination encouraged improper thinking. Beatrice had blinked slowly at him. “Improper thinking is often the most interesting kind.” she commented with a smile. He had not asked her to dance again.

Her twin brother noticed the pattern long before anyone else.

Benedict possessed an artist’s eye. He could spot dissatisfaction the way a painter spots a flaw in color.

One evening, after a particularly exhausting ball, Beatrice slipped quietly onto the Bridgerton terrace for air.

Moments later Benedict appeared beside her, carrying two glasses of lemonade he had very likely stolen from the refreshment table.

“You look like someone who has just attended her own funeral,” he observed.

“I feel as though I have,” she replied.

He studied her for a moment. “Did no one amuse you?”

She thought about it. “Not particularly."

“That is unfortunate,” Benedict said, sipping his drink. “I had hoped someone might distract you long enough that you would stop analyzing every person in the room.”

“I do not analyze people.”

“You absolutely do."

“Do not.”

“You absolutely-”

She smiled faintly. “Perhaps a little.”

Benedict chuckled. “Careful, Bea. Society dislikes women who think too much.”

“Then society is welcome to avoid me.” That earned a quiet look of approval from her twin.

But even Benedict did not fully understand the problem.

Because Beatrice was not searching for excitement.

She was searching for sincerity. And sincerity, in London ballrooms, was a rare commodity.

If there was one place in the world that felt genuine, it was home.

Bridgerton House had its own rhythm. Laughter echoed through its halls at odd hours. Siblings argued passionately about everything from politics to pastries. Music drifted from the pianoforte late into the night.

Servants moved through the house with practiced ease, maintaining order beneath the cheerful chaos.

Among them was John.

He had been in service to the Bridgerton household for several years. No one knew much about him beyond the basic facts. He was steady, reliable, and unfailingly polite.

He rarely spoke unless addressed.

But he noticed everything.

He noticed when Miss Daphne forgot her gloves.

He noticed when Gregory tried to sneak sweets before dinner.

And he noticed when Miss Beatrice returned from another glittering ball looking faintly exhausted.

It was late autumn when they first truly spoke. Beatrice had returned from a musicale so dull she suspected the musicians themselves were suffering.

She slipped quietly into the corridor, tugging loose the pins holding her hair in place. The elaborate arrangement collapsed into soft curls around her shoulders.

She exhaled. The house was quiet. Then footsteps approached.

John appeared carrying a lantern, its warm glow casting gentle shadows along the hallway.

He paused immediately upon seeing her. “Miss Bridgerton.” His voice was calm, respectful, careful.

She nodded. “Good evening, John.”

There was always something reassuring about his presence. Perhaps it was the way he never rushed her, never demanded conversation the way society gentlemen did.

He simply stood there, lantern in hand, waiting. “You have returned early tonight,” he said after a moment.

“I escaped,” she replied.

A tiny flicker of amusement crossed his expression before disappearing again. “Unsuccessful evening, then?”

She leaned lightly against the banister. “That depends. If one enjoys listening to gentlemen describe horse breeding techniques for forty minutes, it was an excellent evening.”

John looked down briefly, hiding what might have been a smile.

Silence settled comfortably between them.

It was Beatrice who broke it.

“John,” she said thoughtfully.

“Yes, miss?”

She studied him. “Tell me something honestly.”

He stiffened ever so slightly. Servants were rarely invited into honest conversations.

“I shall try.”

“Are they all like that?”

His brow furrowed. “The gentlemen?”

“Yes.”

The question hung in the air like a challenge. John hesitated. Footmen were not meant to have opinions about noblemen. But something about her tone, half weary, half curious made the truth slip out.

“Not all.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Yet none of them interest you.” He regretted the words instantly. A servant should never presume such familiarity. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bridgerton-”

But she was not offended. She was intrigued. “Why would you say that?”

John struggled for a response that would not reveal too much.

Because I watch you.

Because I see how your smile fades halfway through a dance.

Because I know when you are pretending.

He said instead, quietly, “Had there been a gentleman who truly captured your interest… you would not look so disappointed each night.”

Beatrice tilted her head. “And what would I look like?”

He thought about it.

About the rare moments when she laughed freely with her siblings. About the warmth that lit her face when Benedict showed her a new sketch.

“Happy,” he said simply.

The word lingered. Beatrice felt something strange stir in her chest.

It was not flirtation. It was not admiration. It was something quieter.

Recognition.

“You notice a great deal, John.”

“I try not to,” he replied softly.

But that night, as she climbed the staircase toward her room, Beatrice realized something unusual.

For the first time since her debut, someone had spoken to her without expectation.

Without calculation.

Without trying to impress her.

And the person who had done so…

Was a footman.

Now, as your husband was enjoying your melodic humming and the sweet smell of the flowers that caressed his hair, you felt inside of you a bubbling wish to lean forward and whisper the good news into his ear. The good news you’d barely managed to fully apprehend on your own. It was scary to reveal such a tender, fragile and unpredictable thing as a pregnancy. There was too much that could still go wrong, too much that still stood between you and the day of birth. Yet, looking at Benedict all calm and relaxed made you wish to comment on how you hoped your child’s eyes would be like his or how you could imagine him holding the small bundle to his chest, a little nose peeking out from white cloth.

You leaned over, closer towards him and moved your hand to the side of his face. His half-closed lids blinked open and his smile deepened when his gaze landed on your tender face.

“Am I positively in bloom now?”

You snickered and carefully brushed your fingertips over the petals behind his ear, making Benedict shiver ever so slightly. “Any young lady would envy you for such an exquisite coiffure!”

Narrowing his eyes, Benedict snarled at you, shaking his head and sending a few petals flying off onto the grass. “You’re lucky I had four younger sisters with a similar taste for dressing me up or I would have long taken off over the meadows!”

Biting your bottom lip to keep from grinning too widely, you got on your knees in one swift motion to wrap your arms around your husband’s shoulders, bringing you faces closer together. “You wouldn’t even have taken off if I had brought a pair of scissors with me to experiment on your hair!”

He chuckled gently and moved an arm over the small of your back to pull you even closer. “It can’t possibly be a good thing that you are correct about this!”

His lips found yours and you melted into the kiss as if the sun had suddenly gotten strong enough to evaporate you. Smoothly you moved your chest over his torso, your hands following the outlines of his shoulders. He hummed into your mouth, his voice vibrating through your skin as your fingers found his face, where your thumbs started caressing the slightest hint of a stubble.

“Benedict,” you sighed, your smile mirrored on his lips, “I have something to-“

“(Y/N)!!” A shrill voice shouted from the front steps of the big country house. You were so surprised, you almost choked, your forehead knocking against your husband’s. Benedict grabbed your elbows to keep you from falling over, one eye closed against the pain of head-to-head contact.

“Oww,” he groaned, looking over his shoulder with faint annoyance. Hyacinth’ voice was easily discernible and lately, she’d managed to interrupt quite a few of your… get togethers.

“(Y/N), are you in the garden?!”  

Raising one hand to your forehead, you couldn’t keep from letting out a breathless laugh. “Ten minutes of peace were quite the luxury, I daresay.”

Benedict let out a sigh, but pulled the corners of his lips up in a little smile, when he saw the humour in your eyes. “Sooner or later, I am going to grab her and lock her in the closet!”

Comfortingly, you patted his chest, before moving your hand to his hair to straighten one crooked daisy. “She’d probably find that rather amusing.”

“Are you sure? She is so very … fourteen now!” Benedict said, an overly accentuated speck of fear concerning teenage-girlhood glinting in his eyes. “When the day comes that we have a fourteen year old daughter, you must help me make sure I never become the object of her wrath!”

Holding your breath, you turned to look at him in awe. Did he know? Had he already figured it out all by himself that you were pregnant? But no, his eyes merely showed signs of good-tempered amusement. He had not yet a clue, which made his comment all the more valuable to you. “I love you,” you stated with feeling and crashed your lips to his in such a surprising manner, that he almost fell over, which laced your kiss with his sweetest chuckles. Moving your face away, you hesitated for a second, gazing in his shining blue eyes, unsure whether you should tell him immediately.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his eyes twitching curiously. You bit down on your lip, enchanted by the way he could almost read your mind. The good news about possible upcoming parenthood would have to wait though. You wanted to tell him, when it was only the two of you.

“Perfectly so,” you therefore exclaimed, before bringing your hands to his chest to push him over for good. Quickly you rose to your feet to answer to Hyacinth’ incessant shouting, laughing at Benedict’s attempts to grab for your heels in retaliation.

“I am here!!” You sang, taking your skirts in your hands to take a few running steps in her direction. She did the same, meeting you halfway and wrapping her arms around your middle, asking to be coddled, while she was going on and on about how she needed your help with this one French book she was reading. You walked back to the house with her, a smile on your features and your arms around her smaller body, as you indulged in the fantasy of her being your daughter and of you being the mother she’d asked for counsel. You looked over your shoulder and saw that Benedict was watching you two. You couldn’t help but wonder whether he was imagining the exact same thing as you.

--------------------------------

After two hours of translations and musings about the difficult French language, Benedict came barging into the study, looking at Hyacinth with a quarrelsome expression.

“Sister,” he growled in a rather menacing tone, “are you kidnapping my wife?”

Holding both your hands on the pages of the big book, you tilted your head in his direction with a meaningful grin. “Oh, you!”

But Hyacinth wasn’t the youngest Bridgerton for nothing. Defiantly she stood up from her chair and walked towards him in the middle of the room. “How dare you!! You didn’t even knock!!”

Benedict almost flinched, when she drilled an authoritative finger into his chest. With seven older siblings, there really wasn’t much that seemed to scare her. He opened his mouth to speak, but was immediately interrupted.

“I am in the midst of a very important lesson and I am fairly certain you still remember how to breathe without (Y/N)!! So!! Fare thee well!!”

It was incredibly hard for you not to burst into a small laughing fit with Benedict looking positively puzzled and his youngest sister intonating every single word as if there was an exclamation mark behind it. Yet, you managed to hide your smile behind your hand as you feigned a cough, which, judging by the way your husband looked at you, Benedict easily identified as an act. He narrowed his eyes and looked from you back to his sister who was still planted before him with a vigour unlike her size and age.

“Very well.” He eventually said; but it wasn’t without a lightness at the end of his phrase – one that was giving him away. Not only to you who had only known him for a short time compared to Hyacinth who had grown up with him. She gasped out “NO!” and wanted to take a step back, but Benedict had already grabbed her and thrown her over his shoulder.

“BENEDICT!!” She screeched, still sounding very childlike, despite wishing to appear much more adult at her tender age. “LET ME DOWN!!”

You looked on with a smile, chuckling at the way Benedict was trying to avoid kicking feet from hitting him in the face. “Do you really think you intimidate me, sister?”

Hyacinth’ squeals mixed with hysterical giggles, when Benedict managed to pin down the swinging legs and started tickling the backs of her knees and calves, her fists drumming against his back. “Dohohoohn’t!!” She giggled, all vigour gone from her sweet voice that sounded much more like the one of a child again.

“Will you release (Y/N) and continue your ‘very important lesson’ some other time?” He asked teasingly, a wide grin appearing on his features when Hyacinth’ mirthful sounds started resonating through the study.

“I WILL I WILL!!” She conceded hastily, her hands trying to grab the fabric of his waistcoat. “Don’t tickle!!”

With an approving noise, Benedict stilled his hands and bent over to plant his sister back on the floor. Groaning from the effort, he shook out his arms when he’d finally managed it. “You are getting too tall for this, aren’t you?” The seriousness in his voice combined with the way he cocked his head to the side in wonder had you throw your head back with a laugh.

Hyacinth put her hands on her hips and looked up at her brother with a pout. “I do definitely hope so!!” She sneered, before planting a fist in the crook of his stomach and quickly making her way to the door. A small smile was grazing her features, when she turned around again in the doorframe, directing her question to you. “We will continue our lessons, tomorrow, yes?”

“Of course, Hyacinth! We will make time for it!” You responded with a smile of your own, closing the book about French history and getting up from your chair to join your husband who was over-dramatically enacting an on-the-brink-of-death scene in the middle of the room, coughing and wrapping his arms around his middle.

“Internal bleeding! Internal bleeding!” He repeated hoarsely, making it impossible for Hyacinth not to break out into a laugh. “You’re so annoying!” She giggled, quickly bustling away, when he took a menacing step in her direction.

When the door fell close behind her, he dropped the act immediately and turned towards you with a sigh of relief. “Finally!”

You made a very undignified noise, when his hands grabbed for the fabric of your dress and pulled you towards him, your bodies colliding in an inelegant way, full of hunger and devotion. Giggling, you turned your head to the side, when his lips found your neck, kisses and nibbles sending ticklish jolts into your hairline. “Stop it! What are you doing?”

“It appears, I am overcome,” he mumbled into your skin, taking a deep breath from the sensitive skin under your ear, “by a very strong need to spend some… quality time alone with you!”

“Quality time?” Moving your hands up his back, you allowed him to lead you backwards into the study, your steps mirroring his own until you reached the table with the big French history book. Your eyelids fluttered shut at the warm touch of his lips to your cheeks.

“Mhhh,” he agreed, his nose circling your own and his lips grazing your mouth as he spoke, “the rare, special occasion is one I am very ambitious for!”

Smoothly, Benedict’s hands moved under your behind to lift you ever so slightly and place you on the table, the book shifting backwards, giving room to you. You moved your hands from his back to his cheeks, your hands cupping the face in front of you and holding it steady for the kiss you planted on its lips. Benedict smiled peacefully, his blue eyes sinking into yours. “I love my family dearly, dearly, dearly… but I need to have these moments with you alone, truly alone!”

The heart within your chest contracted for one beat, sending a slightly painful sting through your body. It was only a short moment, only one small hint of fear, but it sufficed to make you realize that you were scared Benedict might not actually be as thrilled as you were about the child blossoming in your belly. What if it was too early? What if Benedict still required, perhaps even hoped for some time without a family? What if he would be overwhelmed by a family that grew and grew and never seemed to allow you two any more time alone? You gulped and suddenly moved your hands back to his shoulders, holding on tightly.

Benedict seemed to notice that something was off, moving his head away from the side of your face to look you in the eyes. His gaze was soft and sweet and you wanted to drown in it, wanted to get lost in it as he moved his hands all over your body. But for now there was no more movement aside from his nose brushing against yours, a movement equal to a question.

“Are you alright?”

You realized you’d been holding your breath and took a deep one, before pushing your face into his as affectionately as you could. “I just want you,” you whispered, meaning it in every way possible, from head to toes, from now on to the end of your days, from his soul to his heart to every memory you’d make together. You wanted him. And every single part of him that grew through you. You could only hope that it would be the same way for him. “I want you so badly,” you continued, your voice almost hoarse from raw emotion which made his eyes flicker with a suddenly burning fire. Devotion radiated from his kiss adjoined to something that went deeper, something that was inexplicable and yet so strangely clear.

“You have me!” He growled into your neck, breathing your scent another time and kissing the vein running up your skin with an urgence. “You will have me! Entirely!”

You smiled against his cheek and moved your lips to his mouth to steal a kiss from its corner. That made him smile your favourite smile and suddenly you were lifted off of the table and carried towards the door. Moving your arms around his neck, you held on to him, running your eyes up and down his face to not miss a single sign of his happiness. You didn’t have to ask where he’d take you, knowing full well that he would tug you into the sheets of his bed, caressing your skin with his own and joining your bodies to become one. You wanted to be as close to him as possible, and afterwards you would tell him, afterwards you would try to find the right words and hope for a reaction that wouldn’t scare you. Right now, he was right, it would be just the two of you.

He opened the door… and ran into Anthony.

“Anthony!” He exclaimed in surprise, not yet considering to drop you which you found at the same time embarrassing and sweet. Trying to turn around in his embrace, you looked at Anthony over your shoulder, greeting him with a quite awkward “Hello!”

“Where have you two been, I was looking all over for you… wait, don’t answer that!” He waved his hand around in front of his chest, the corners of his lips twitching ever so slightly. “Though I do have to say, I’d like to know if the study should be er… cleaned!”

“Brother!!” Benedict groaned, his head dropping on your shoulder, the warmth from his reddened cheeks burning your skin.

Chuckling, you patted Benedict’s shoulder to signal you’d like to be let down. The muscles in his arms clenched from unwillingness, but he did indulge you and let you slide to a standing position.

You decided not to answer the last comment and simply tilted your head to the side expectantly, your unashamed smile making Anthony’s own grow. “What was it you needed from us?”

“Not I,” Anthony responded, his amusement at his brother’s unmistakable frustration quite obvious. “But our dear mother. She needs your opinions for the upcoming summer ball. Apparently Daphne and Kate would like you to join in on the preparations.”

Benedict groaned loudly. You tried not to send him a sympathetic glance and merely nodded at Anthony’s request, asking in return where you could find the other ladies.

“Don’t worry, brother!” Anthony consoled your husband, when you took his hand in a silent goodbye. “I’ll make sure no one bothers you after dinner. I know how hard it can be to find… some time alone.”

Benedict actually felt compelled to smile at his brother in gratitude, before sending you one more longing gaze. “I can’t wait.”

Then Anthony wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him in one direction and the preparations for the ball pulled you in the other. During the time it took to walk to the ladies of the house, you couldn’t stop worrying about what Benedict’s reaction would be once you told him of the pregnancy after dinner.

------------------------------

Being at the table with the entire family always put Benedict into good spirits, no matter how much he’d longed for a moment alone with you throughout the day. He made faces at Daphne, poked Eloise into the side until she almost choked on a piece of bread, laughed at Colin’s jokes and exchanged warm glances with his mother. You were having lovely conversations with Kate and spoke some more to Hyacinth about her French. Everyone at the table tried to outdo Colin and his funny remarks, but no one quite was as good at it as he was and he seemed to be taking great pride in it.

Seeing Benedict interact with his family reassured you in a way you had not entirely realized you’d needed. Yes, you were both in great need of being close to each other in private. Yes, you were both enjoying it immensely, when no one interrupted your time together. But being at the table with everyone, conversing, joking, teasing and simply enjoying each other’s company was something Benedict would never have to ‘suffer’ through. Time spent with his family was time well spent and you could see in his face that he was more than content. e

It took away so much of the fear you’d felt throughout the day, the fear that he might not be happy about the news that you were with child. This was his world and he would be, you were very certain, delighted to have such a world of his own.

Kate and Anthony were the first to leave the table – in the dim candle light you couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like he was waggling his eyebrows at you – and after a while, you, Benedict, Daphne and Simon all decided to do the same, bidding your adieus from the family for the day and retiring to your chambers.

Benedict was in high spirits which was most likely due to the lovely evening and the prospect of finally being alone with you without fear of interruption. You suppressed a squeal, when he decided to chase you up the stairs, scooping you into his arms at the far end of the hallway that followed and banging open the door to your shared room with his shoulder. You giggled uncontrollably, when he kicked the door closed with his foot and practically ran towards the bed to throw you on the covers.

“I am going to jump out of the window if anyone dares interrupt us here and now!” He hissed humorously, taking off his waistcoat as quickly as he could and starting to work on his breeches.

Laughing cheerfully, you moved your hands in his direction, demanding him to get into the bed this instant. “Must you seriously be standing over there while getting undressed?”

“Where are my manners?” He gasped out in fake shock and all but dove into the sheets next to you, grabbing your waist and pulling you underneath him, drawing more silly laughter out from you when he pushed his face into the silk covering your belly. “Taking off clothes is almost as intrusive as my siblings! We will simply ignore them!!”

It was hard to speak through your laughter, but somehow you managed to grab a hold of his head and pulled it up towards you. “Ben, please, I must breathe! I must breathe!”

Grinning widely, he pushed his face against yours. “You should have to quit laughing for that first!”

It took a moment, but you did manage to calm your breathing, your arms wrapped around your husband who had his head propped up on one hand and was looking at you with a lazy smile. “Better?”

That almost made you burst out laughing again, but you managed to control yourself and instead grabbed him by the shoulders and changed positions, ending up on top of him. He huffed out in surprise, but his smile was big enough to light up the room, when he grabbed your thighs on either side of his hips.

“I feel deliciously trapped!”

“I have something to tell you!” You mused, searching for his hands with your own to interlock your fingers. Apparently you were in need of holding on to him while telling him what would come next. The pressure of his palms against your own quieted your mind and helped you focus on the matter at hand.

“Something you have to pin me down for?” He joked, his eyes widening with amusement. For you, his question brought back a small amount of dread and your smile fell ever so slightly.

“I… I hope not!” With hesitation you looked away, running your thumbs over his hands to calm yourself, while you were in search of what exactly to say. It would appear easy enough, declaring that one was pregnant, but, in truth, uttering the words was quite powerful and made the reality of the phrase stand out quite drastically.

“What is it?” Benedict asked, sitting up slightly and observing with a portion of concern the way you were biting the inside of your cheek. “(Y/N), is everything alright?”

You moved your eyes up, locking your gaze with his and taking a deep breath. It was all there, in his eyes: the love, the devotion, the care. He would be delighted. Yes, there was no other way…

“Ben, I know that sometimes it feels like we do not have a lot of time to ourselves.” He snorted in response to your words, underlining them with his reaction.

“The time I get to spend alone with you is a most cherished treasure.” You continued and slightly bucked your hips against his, making him chuckle softly. “Now, it is simply so…” You gulped and looked from left to right, before deciding to bring both of his hands to your belly. “It is so that… I am almost one hundred percent sure that I am…”

“YOU’RE PREGNANT!!!” Benedict shouted over your poor attempts of uttering the words you found so hard to actually say out loud and before you had a chance to asses the situation, you were pushed on your back, with your head by the foot of the bed and your husband fussing over you. His big hands were moving from your cheek to your belly to his head and back to your belly, all while he made noises of the purest and most natural delight you’d ever seen in a man.

“You’re pregnant!! You’re pregnant!!” He kept on repeating, his joy reverberating through every single nerve end on his body and conjoining with your own. All the insecurities of the day fell off your shoulders and the light weight that remained made your eyes water.

“Oh, my love,” you almost sobbed out, “I am so happy to see you react this way!”

“How could I not?” Benedict laughed with joy, cupping your face and kissing you and kissing you some more, small wet drops falling on your cheeks, when his emotions got the better of him. “We will be parents!” He choked out, before kissing you again and moving his hands to your belly again. “You are having a baby!” He uttered with teary eyes, sinking down on the level of your middle to place a thousand kisses on your gown. “A baby!!” He repeated again, before laughing incredulously.

You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him up and towards you. You needed to have him close as you buried your face in his shoulder and allowed tears of your own to run down your cheeks. “I love you!” You whispered with all your affection. “I love you and I love you and I love you!!”

More of Benedict’s tears fell on your face, when he moved himself up slightly, the salty traces mingling with your own. “My love,” he hummed softly, “you were worried, weren’t you? You were worried, it would make me fear for our alone time! Oh, (Y/N), I don’t fear that! I don’t fear a single thing when it comes to us!”

He buried his face in your neck to breathe you in, before looking at your belly again – it would become a recurrent thing in the following nine months, as your belly grew, he would look and look and look with all the adoration he was capable of. “I am beyond happy!”

“As am I!” You placed your hand over his own on your belly, as you were starting to realize the truth of this situation together, as you started to talk about names and traits, as you started to exchange assumptions and plans. It was exactly the way you’d hoped it would be.