#jonathan bailey masterlist

Everyone in the ton knew two things the moment Anthony Bridgerton married you: first, that you were the one woman capable of softening him in a way nobody had ever managed before, and second, that nothing on this earth, not God nor king nor country, could ever stop him from protecting you with his entire soul, which - unfortunately - only made certain men, desperate, jealous, or foolishly curious, even more determined to test the boundaries of the Viscount’s temper by seeking your attention, your smile, your presence, as though you were a prize rather than a person, as though they did not fear the consequences of stepping too close to the edge of the man who had already proven himself willing to burn for the ones he loved.

Tonight, at Lord Hawthorne’s spring ball, their hunger became a little more obvious, their gazes lingering too long, their whispers too bold, their nightly drinks loosening the caution they should have held close to their chests; and while Anthony was called away by his brothers for a brief discussion about some estate matter, you felt it - an unease settling under your ribs, a prickle up the back of your neck - until a man whose name you barely remembered but whose reputation was well-known for arrogance and indulgence stepped too close, his breath thick with drink, his smile sharp in a way that made you instinctively step back, only to find the ballroom too crowded to move freely.

“Lady Bridgerton,” he drawled, eyes flicking over you with a familiarity he had not earned. “Your husband… always leaves you unattended. A pity, truly.”

You stiffened, keeping your voice polite. “The Viscount will return shortly. If you will excuse me-”

But his hand shot out, fingers clamping around your wrist with a strength heightened by drink and entitlement, his nails digging in just enough to make your breath hitch as he tugged you forward with a force that left the floor tilting slightly beneath your feet.

“No need to scurry away,” he murmured, his grip tightening even as you attempted to twist free. “We are quite alone here, aren’t we?”

You swallowed. “This is highly inappropriate-”

“Oh, come now,” he whispered, leaning too close, his breath fanning over your cheek, “surely the Viscount cannot blame a man for admiring beauty when it is so very tempting.”

You jerked your arm back, but he only laughed, guiding you, step by step, toward the terrace doors - dark, half-open, unguarded - until the cool night air spilled over your skin and the room disappeared behind you, the sounds of violins muffled as he closed the door with a slow, deliberate click.

“Let go,” you said, your voice shaking despite your attempt to remain steady.

He did not.

Instead, he crowded you against the stone balustrade, the pressure of it pressing coldly into your lower back, his fingers sliding up your arm until they reached your jaw, tilting your face toward his with a horrifying gentleness that made your stomach drop. “You deserve someone who sees you,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the corner of your lip in a gesture that made revulsion crawl up your spine. “Someone who is not too busy being Viscount to remember he has a wife.”

You twisted your head away just as he dipped toward your mouth, his lips skimming the edge of your cheek, damp and unwanted, sending a jolt of panic straight through your chest as his other hand seized your waist, pulling you closer, closer-

And something inside you broke.

You reacted without thinking, teeth sinking sharply into the skin of his cheek, just below his lip, tasting copper, hearing the hiss of pain as he reared back, shock flashing across his face before it twisted into something dark, ugly, dangerous.

“You little-”

The slap came before you could brace for it, white-hot and stunning, snapping your head sideways, the world tilting violently as his hand shoved you, hard, sending you stumbling into the stone railing, pain blooming along your ribs as your breath punched out of your lungs in a strangled gasp.

You barely had time to catch yourself before he grabbed your shoulders, shaking you once, twice, his grip unforgiving as you tried to push him away, voice trembling: “Stop… please… stop-”

And then-

A sound you had never heard from Anthony before tore through the night.

It wasn’t a shout.

It wasn’t a call.

It was a roar.

Animal.

Raw.

Murderous.

“TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF MY WIFE.”

The man barely had time to turn before Anthony collided with him, the impact so violent you heard the air punched from his lungs as they hit the terrace floor, Anthony’s fists already swinging, relentless, punishing, each blow a horrific crack of knuckles against bone as he straddled the man’s chest, eyes wide and wild, breathing like a man who had been denied oxygen for too long.

“You touched her,” Anthony growled, voice low and shaking with rage so deep it bordered on madness. “You dared lay a filthy hand on her-”

Another punch.

“And you think you will breathe after that?”

Another.

Your voice scraped out of your throat. “Anthony-”

He didn’t hear you.

He couldn’t.

He was gone.

Lost.

You watched with trembling limbs as Anthony seized the man by the collar, dragging him upward only to slam him back down, the sickening thud echoing in the night as the man whimpered, blood already streaking down his chin.

Anthony’s hands moved to his throat.

“No-” you gasped, stumbling forward, “Anthony, please-”

But Anthony’s fingers tightened, squeezing, pushing the man’s head back into the stone, his jaw clenched so hard the veins in his neck stood out, his entire body shaking with the sheer force of his fury as he leaned over the man, voice low and lethal: “I should end you for touching her. I should end you right here.”

The man choked, struggling weakly.

Anthony pressed harder.

“ANTHONY!” Benedict’s voice cut through the night like a blade.

Suddenly there were hands grabbing Anthony’s shoulders, arms wrapping around his torso, pulling, tugging, fighting him; Benedict on one side, Colin on the other, both straining from the sheer strength of a man gone feral with fear and rage.

“Anthony! Stop! You’ll kill him-”

“Let go of him, brother- he cannot breathe-”

“He hurt her,” Anthony shouted, voice cracking with something guttural and shattered. “He hurt her, let me go… LET ME GO-”

But his brothers held him, panting, grunting with the effort, until at last his hands slipped from the man’s bruised throat, leaving him gasping and coughing on the ground.

And then Anthony saw you.

Finally saw you.

The bruises forming on your arm, the reddened handprint on your cheek, the tear tracks you hadn’t even realized were there.

Anthony froze.

Everything inside him - rage, movement, breath - stilled.

He stumbled toward you, eyes wide, horrified, devastated in a way that made your heart twist because you had never seen him look like that, never seen him genuinely afraid.

“Sweetheart…” he breathed, voice breaking, “my love- what has he- what did he -”

He reached for you, then stopped, hands hovering inches from your skin as though he feared he might hurt you simply by touching, his chest rising and falling too fast, too sharply.

“Anthony,” you whispered.

He crumpled.

Quite literally - his knees hit the stone as he pulled you into his arms with a gentleness that contradicted every violent breath he’d taken moments before, his hand sliding behind your head, his other sweeping around your waist, holding you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly.

“I’m here,” he whispered into your hair, his voice shaking as tears slipped down onto your shoulder. “My darling girl, I am here, I am here, you’re safe, you’re safe now, I swear it-”

You trembled in his hold, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, breathing him in, grounding yourself in the scent of sandalwood and clove and the warmth of his chest pressed tightly against yours.

Benedict and Colin exchanged a look - relief, horror, pity - before stepping away to retrieve their mother, who emerged moments later with a gasp of horror, hands covering her mouth, her eyes shining with sympathy and devastation as she hurried to your side.

“My dear,” Lady Bridgerton whispered, cupping your uninjured cheek with a mother’s tenderness. “Come, let us get you home.”

But Anthony was already rising to his feet, scooping you into his arms without hesitation, his jaw set, his eyes burning, his voice firm and low as he addressed his mother:

“I am taking her home. No one else touches her. No one.”

His mother nodded softly, surprised by neither his protectiveness nor the terrifying certainty in his tone.

You buried your face in Anthony’s shoulder as he carried you through the house, ignoring the shocked gasps and murmurs that spread like wildfire through the guests. He did not slow. He did not explain. He did not acknowledge anyone.

He simply held you.

As though you were the only thing that existed.

————————

The carriage ride home felt strangely silent despite the pounding of hooves, the creak of wheels, the frantic rhythm of your own heart. Anthony had you gathered in his lap the entire time, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as though you were made of glass and he feared even the vibration of the road might cause you more pain. His chin rested against your temple, his breath shaky every few seconds - he tried to hide it, but he couldn’t, not like this, not when the adrenaline had faded and left nothing but fear and guilt in its wake.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he whispered into your hair, voice hoarse. “Tell me the moment you feel discomfort, and I will stop the carriage, I’ll carry you the rest of the way, I do not care how many miles remain.”

“I’m alright,” you murmured, your voice still trembling from what had happened. “You don’t need to-”

Anthony flinched. Actually flinched.

“Do not say I don’t need to,” he whispered, pulling you tighter, “because I do. I need to hold you. I need to touch you. I need to know you’re still here. I nearly-” His voice cracked, the words breaking apart. “I nearly lost myself entirely when I saw him shove you. If Benedict and Colin had not-”

You felt his throat move as he swallowed hard.

“…I don’t know what would remain of me,” he finished in a whisper.

You tightened your grip on his waist, and Anthony made a sound - low, raw, relieved - burying his face in your shoulder.

When the carriage finally stopped outside Bridgerton House, Anthony didn’t wait for the footman. He simply stood, lifting you into his arms with a strength that was gentler than anyone would have expected from a man who’d been moments away from killing someone with his bare hands.

The maids rushed toward the door the moment he crossed the threshold, but Anthony’s voice was firm, icy, brooking no argument.

“No one touches her,” he ordered. “No one enters our room. I will tend to her myself.”

They curtsied and disappeared quickly, wide-eyed and whispering - but none dared disobey.

Anthony carried you through the halls with steps that grew faster the closer he came to your room, as though the only place he trusted the world with you was behind that locked door. When he reached it, he nudged it open with his shoulder and set you down only when he had no other choice, his hands sliding slowly down your arms as though afraid you might dissolve the moment he let go.

“Sit, my love,” he whispered, guiding you to the edge of the bed. “Let me… let me take care of you.”

Your throat tightened at the way his hands trembled as he reached for the laces of your gown. Anthony Bridgerton - your husband, your steady, fierce, impossibly controlled husband - was shaking.

“Anthony,” you whispered.

“Please,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your bruised cheek like it physically hurt him to look at it. “Let me do this.”

So you let him.

He unlaced your gown with slow, reverent hands, peeling away the fabric inch by inch, murmuring apologies every time you winced, even when you insisted the pain was mild. His jaw flexed when he found the bruise forming on your shoulder from where you had been shoved. His breath hitched when he saw the angry red marks around your arm where you had been grabbed.

And then he dropped to his knees.

Just… dropped.

As though the sight of the damage had pulled the ground out from under him.

“Anthony-”

“I should have been there,” he whispered, his hands hovering just above your skin. “I should never have let you walk away alone. I will never - never - allow such a thing to happen again.”

“Anthony, it wasn’t your-”

“It was,” he said sharply - not angry at you, but angry at himself, furious in a way that trembled beneath the surface. “Your safety is my charge. Your wellbeing is my duty. Your happiness is-” He broke off, dragging a shaking hand through his hair. “I failed you tonight. I failed my wife.”

You lifted his chin gently.

His eyes were wet.

“Anthony,” you whispered, “I’m not afraid of you.”

He froze.

Actually froze.

You cupped his face more firmly, bringing his forehead to yours. “Look at me,” you whispered. “I’m not afraid of you. Not your anger. Not your temper. Not your fists. Not your voice. Not anything you did tonight. You were protecting me.”

He inhaled sharply, a wounded sound that split your heart in two.

“You cannot know how that comforts me,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “You have no idea what a mercy that is to hear.”

You brushed your thumb over the corner of his mouth. “Come here.”

He climbed onto the bed slowly, almost cautiously, as though afraid he might break something by moving too quickly. You lay back, pulling him with you until his body was half draped over yours, his head on your chest, his hand pressed over your heart like he needed proof it was still beating.

For a long time, he didn’t speak.

He simply breathed you in, his fingers tracing your ribs, your waist, your thigh, as though reacquainting himself with every piece of you he had feared losing.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft, vulnerable, shattered in the way only a man deeply in love can be shattered.

“May I… kiss them?” he whispered, nodding to the bruises.

You nodded.

So he kissed them.

Every one.

Your cheek.

Your shoulder.

The marks on your arm.

The small bruise forming on your hip.

Each kiss was slow, reverent, full of apologies he didn’t have the words to say.

When he reached your lips, he paused, his forehead against yours.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered. “Name it, and I will give it to you.”

“I just need you,” you murmured, threading your fingers into his hair. “Stay with me. Lie with me. Hold me.”

Anthony exhaled shakily, the relief in his eyes almost painful to witness.

“Always,” he whispered.

He slid beneath the blankets with you, pulling your body against his chest, wrapping himself around you as though trying to form a shield with his own limbs. His hand splayed over your back, warm and steady. His lips brushed the crown of your head again and again, murmuring soft reassurances between breaths.

“You’re safe.”

“You’re mine.”

“I’m here.”

“I won’t let anything hurt you again.”

“I love you. God, I love you.”

The room grew quiet.

Your breathing steadied.

His heartbeat settled.

And in the darkness, with his arms tight around you, with his breath warm against your skin, with the weight of his devotion pressing softly into your bones-

You felt safe.

You felt protected.

You felt loved.

And for the first time since the terrace, the terror finally melted away.

———————

Not because the physician had said so. Not because the maids had begun moving too quickly through the corridors of Bridgerton House or because Violet Bridgerton’s calm voice had sharpened ever so slightly with concern.

No.

Anthony knew because the sound that left your mouth did not resemble pain.

It resembled fear.

Pure, blinding fear.

He was beside you instantly, crossing the room in two hurried strides just as your knees threatened to buckle beneath you, and the moment his hands settled around your waist you clung to him with trembling fingers, burying your face against his chest while another contraction tore through you hard enough to force a cry from your throat.

“Anthony,” you gasped, your voice cracking apart. “Anthony, I cannot do this.”

His heart nearly stopped.

Anthony wrapped both arms around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other pressed firmly against your spine, grounding you against him as though he could physically shoulder some of your pain himself.

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, though his own voice shook violently. “Yes, you can, my love. Look at me.”

You lifted tear-filled eyes to his, and Christ, the terror in them nearly destroyed him.

“I am frightened,” you admitted in a whisper so small it sounded childlike. “Something feels wrong.”

Anthony felt every ounce of blood drain from his body.

But he could not break.

Not now.

Not when you were already trembling apart in his arms.

So he cupped your face with both hands and forced himself to become steady, even while panic clawed viciously at his ribs.

“You listen to me carefully,” he said softly, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “You are not alone in this. Do you understand? I am here. I shall remain here. You may scream, cry, curse my name if you must, but I will not leave you.”

Another contraction hit.

You cried out sharply and doubled forward, clutching at the front of his waistcoat while Anthony held you upright, his jaw clenching painfully at the helplessness of hearing you suffer.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered desperately. “Please, sweetheart, breathe.”

The hours that followed blurred together into something feverish and endless.

The bedroom grew unbearably warm despite the rain battering against the windows outside. Candles flickered low. Maids rushed in and out carrying fresh cloths and steaming water. Violet remained near the bed with a composure Anthony suspected was only held together by years of practice, though he noticed the way her hands shook whenever your cries grew too loud.

And through all of it, Anthony never once let go of you.

Not once.

He held your hand through every contraction until his fingers were numb. He wiped tears from your cheeks with trembling thumbs. He pressed shaking kisses against your forehead whenever the pain became too much and you began sobbing openly into his shoulder.

At some point during the night, your fear began infecting him completely.

Because the physician had stopped reassuring him.

That was what Anthony noticed first.

The older man had initially spoken calmly, confidently, but as the hours dragged on his expression grew increasingly grim. He exchanged too many looks with the midwife. Too many quiet whispers. Too much silence.

And Anthony Bridgerton had always been clever enough to recognize when people were hiding the truth.

Another scream ripped from your throat, raw enough to make Violet close her eyes briefly in visible anguish.

“I cannot,” you sobbed, clutching Anthony’s hand so tightly it hurt. “Anthony, please, I cannot do this anymore.”

“Yes, you can,” he said immediately, though tears were already burning behind his own eyes. “You are the bravest woman I have ever known.”

“I am tired,” you whispered brokenly.

Anthony nearly shattered right there beside the bed.

Because you sounded defeated.

Because your voice had gone weak.

Because beneath the sweat and pain and exhaustion, your face had begun losing colour in a way that made terror crawl steadily up his spine.

Then the physician approached him quietly.

“Lord Bridgerton,” he murmured carefully. “A word, if I may.”

Anthony’s stomach dropped instantly.

You noticed too.

Your hand tightened around his weakly. “No,” you whispered immediately, panic flooding your exhausted features. “No, do not leave me.”

Anthony bent down at once, pressing his forehead against yours.

“I am not leaving,” he promised quickly. “I shall be right outside the door. Only a moment.”

You looked unconvinced.

Terrified.

Anthony kissed your forehead shakily before forcing himself upright and following the physician toward the hallway, every instinct screaming at him not to walk away from you even for a second.

The moment the door shut behind them, Anthony turned sharply.

“What is happening?”

The physician hesitated.

That hesitation alone nearly drove Anthony mad.

“My lord,” the physician said carefully, “the labour is not progressing as it should. Her Grace has lost a concerning amount of blood already, and the child remains in distress.”

Anthony stared at him.

No.

No.

“She is frightened,” Anthony said immediately, as though saying it aloud could somehow fix the situation. “That is all. She has been in pain for many hours.”

The physician’s silence was unbearable.

Then came the words that would haunt Anthony for the rest of his life.

“If matters worsen…” the physician began quietly, “I may need to know who you wish me to save.”

Anthony stopped breathing.

The hallway tilted violently around him.

“What?”

The physician lowered his gaze. “I pray it shall not come to that. But if I am forced to choose between mother and child, I must have your instruction beforehand.”

Anthony physically recoiled.

“No.”

“My lord-”

“No.”

His voice cracked so violently that Violet appeared at the far end of the corridor, alarm flashing across her face immediately.

Anthony dragged a shaking hand through his hair, breathing hard now, panic threatening to suffocate him whole.

“You save my wife.”

The physician nodded once.

Anthony grabbed his arm before he could leave.

“But you save them both,” he said, his voice suddenly vicious with desperation. “Do you understand me? You do not let her die.”

Violet reached him just as the physician disappeared back into the room.

Anthony looked utterly destroyed.

His mother had not seen him like this since Edmund died.

“Anthony,” she whispered softly.

He turned toward her with red-rimmed eyes.

“I cannot lose her.”

And suddenly he was no longer Viscount Bridgerton.

No longer the composed head of the family.

He was simply a terrified husband.

A frightened little boy who had already buried one parent and could not survive burying the love of his life too.

Violet cupped his face gently.

“You must be strong for her now.”

Anthony let out a broken laugh.

“I am trying.”

Then another scream tore through the door.

Anthony was moving before thought could catch up to him.

He rushed back into the room and immediately crossed to your bedside, taking your face into both hands as tears spilled freely down your cheeks.

“There you are,” you sobbed weakly. “You left.”

“I came back,” he whispered instantly. “My love, look at me. I came back.”

Your fingers clutched desperately at his sleeves.

“I do not want to die.”

The words hit him like a blade directly through the chest.

Anthony’s composure broke entirely.

“You are not going to die,” he said fiercely, though tears were streaming down his own face now. “Do you hear me? You are not leaving me. I forbid it.”

A weak sound escaped you that might once have been a laugh.

“You cannot command death, Anthony.”

His mouth trembled violently.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “But I shall fight it for you if I must.”

The physician instructed you to push again.

Anthony held you through it all.

Through the screams.

Through the tears.

Through the moments you nearly gave up entirely.

He whispered constantly, desperate encouragement spilling from him between shaking breaths.

“That’s it.”

“You’re doing beautifully.”

“I have you.”

“Just a little longer.”

“I love you.”

And when your body finally began failing beneath the strain, when your head lolled weakly against the pillows and the physician’s expression turned urgent, Anthony felt true terror consume him for the first time in years.

“Stay with me,” he begged, gripping your hand tightly enough to hurt. “Do not you dare close your eyes.”

“I am so tired,” you whispered faintly.

“No.” Anthony bent over you immediately, his forehead pressing desperately against yours. “No, no, no, sweetheart, stay awake for me. Look at me. Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered weakly.

Anthony was crying openly now.

Violently.

Helplessly.

“You promised me forever,” he whispered brokenly. “You cannot leave me here alone.”

Then suddenly, chaos erupted.

The physician barked orders.

The midwife moved quickly.

And a sharp cry split the room.

The baby.

Your baby.

Anthony barely heard it, because his eyes were fixed entirely on you, on your frightening stillness. “Why is she not moving?” he demanded, panic rising instantly. The physician was saying something. Violet was praying quietly somewhere behind him.

Anthony could not hear any of it over the roaring terror flooding his ears.

Then finally.

Finally.

Your eyes opened.

A weak breath left your lips.

And Anthony collapsed. Actually collapsed beside the bed with a broken sob tearing from his chest as he seized your hand and pressed it desperately against his mouth. “There she is,” he choked out through tears. “There you are. God, do not ever frighten me like that again.” You smiled weakly despite your exhaustion. Then the physician carefully placed your daughter into your arms.

The room fell silent.

Anthony stared at the tiny infant in complete disbelief, his entire face crumpling with emotion as your daughter let out another soft cry.

“She is beautiful,” you whispered tearfully.

Anthony looked between the two of you, utterly devastated by love.

His wife. His daughter.

Alive.

Both alive.

He reached out with visibly shaking hands and touched the baby’s tiny fingers.

And then he cried harder than he ever had in his life.

—————

The moment Anthony Bridgerton walked toward you on the dance floor, all restless tension and burning jealousy wrapped in perfect gentlemanly attire, you felt something sharp twist inside your chest, not the sweet flutter of longing that had once warmed you whenever he approached, but something hotter and far more complicated. You had spent the last week in silence, licking wounds from the argument that had left both of you bruised in pride and spirit, and you had sworn to yourself that you would not make the first move. You had sworn that if Anthony wanted you, truly wanted you, he would have to prove it without being nudged, teased, or coaxed. Yet here he was, approaching you only after seeing another man’s hand at your waist, only after you dared to enjoy yourself for the first time in days, only after someone else had dared to look at you with interest. It was insulting, infuriating, intoxicating, and entirely too familiar.

The gentleman you were dancing with attempted to smile politely as Anthony stepped into his space, claiming your attention with a confidence that bordered dangerously on arrogance. He bowed stiffly, mumbling something about allowing Lord Bridgerton the next dance, but you lifted your chin before Anthony could open his mouth and placed a hand lightly on your partner’s arm. “No,” you said softly, but loudly enough for Anthony to hear. “I believe I am still engaged in this set.”

Anthony froze, shock flickering across his face so quickly it almost vanished beneath the carefully controlled mask he tried to force back into place. No woman had ever refused him in public. No woman had ever dared to challenge him in front of the entire ballroom. It should have terrified you, yet the indignation simmering just beneath your skin only sharpened your resolve. He took another step toward you, eyes locked on yours with a heat that made your breath hitch in spite of yourself. “I will speak with you,” Anthony said quietly, a low command he expected you to obey.

You leveled him with a glare that could have sliced through steel. “You had an entire week to speak with me, my lord.”

The words hit him like a blow.

Women around you gasped, fans fluttering, whispers rising as Anthony’s stare darkened, but still you continued, refusing to let him dominate this moment. “And now you wish to speak only because another man asked me to dance. How very childish of you.”

Anthony inhaled sharply, and for a moment, you saw something raw and wounded beneath the jealous fury in his eyes. He opened his mouth to respond, but you had already stepped away from both men, lifting your gown with trembling fingers and leaving the dance floor with your spine straight and your pride unshaken. The room parted around you in stunned silence, all eyes following as you walked out of the ballroom without a single glance back.

Anthony did glance back.

He stared after you like a man possessed.

And then he followed.

You felt him before you heard him, his footsteps heavy and determined as he trailed you through the dimly lit corridors toward the gardens, the cold night air brushing your cheeks as you pushed through the doors and stepped into the quiet darkness. The moment you were alone among the sculpted hedges and flickering lanterns, you drew in a steadying breath. “You should go back inside,” you said without turning. “It is improper for us to be alone.”

Anthony’s voice came from behind you, low and dark, vibrating with something that made your pulse stumble. “I do not give a damn about propriety when it comes to you.”

You turned then, eyes narrowing. “You should. You always have. Yet tonight it seems you remember your feelings only when someone else dares offer me attention.”

He moved forward, slow and deliberate, the measured stride of a man who had finally lost patience with pretense. “Do not twist this into something trivial,” he said quietly, the intensity in his eyes almost unbearable. “Do not pretend I look at you as though you are an object. Do not pretend I fight for you because of pride. I am jealous because I am in love with you.”

Your heart lurched, but you refused to let desire soften your stance. “Then you should have said so a week ago,” you whispered, breath shaking. “Not now, not because someone else dared speak to me.”

Anthony stepped closer still, the shadows flickering across his face, carving his features into something fierce and beautiful and utterly undone. “I have never wanted anything or anyone the way I want you,” he said, voice roughening as he approached. “And I cannot stand the thought of another man touching you when I have spent every day wanting to touch you myself.”

You stepped back instinctively, your spine brushing the cold stone wall of the garden terrace as Anthony continued forward, stopping only when he stood so close that his breath mingled with yours, his hand lifting just enough to touch your cheek but hesitating in the air between you as though he feared you might reject him again. “You are not my property,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You never will be. But you are the woman I desire more than I desire breath, and you know that. You must know that.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Anthony,” you whispered, “we should not be alone out here.”

Anthony finally touched you.

His hand rested against your jaw, warm and shaking slightly, his thumb brushing the place where your pulse thundered beneath your skin. “Then tell me to go,” he murmured, his lips inches from yours. “Tell me to leave, and I will walk back inside right now.”

Silence swelled between you.

You could not speak.

Your breath caught.

Anthony exhaled a trembling sound, something deep and nearly broken, and before you could gather a single protest, he moved.

He caged you against the wall, not with force, but with the slow, hungry determination of a man who had been holding himself back for far too long. His hands framed your face, his body close enough that you felt the heat of him through every inch of space between you, and then his lips descended to yours in a kiss that stole your breath, your thoughts, your anger, everything.

The kiss was not polite, nor gentle, nor controlled.

It was the kiss of a man who had finally reached his limit.

A man who had wanted, and lost, and wanted again until the wanting had become unbearable.

You gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, your resolve melting beneath the force of his desire and your own equally fierce longing that surged to the surface the moment he touched you. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that bordered on desperation, and when you parted your mouth for him, you felt his entire body shudder in relief.

He pulled away only when breathing became necessary, his forehead pressing to yours, his voice rough and shaking as he whispered, “I will fight for you. I will always fight for you. But do not ever mistake my desire for possession. I want you because you are you. Because you challenge me. Because you pull me apart. Because you make me better.”

Your breath trembled against his.

“And because I love you,” he finished softly. “If that frightens you, tell me to walk away.”

You did not tell him to walk away.

You kissed him instead.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the possessive intensity of moments earlier, and for a long, breathless stretch of time, the only thing that existed was the warmth of his mouth and the trembling rise and fall of your chest pressed to his.

When he pulled back, he released a shaky breath against your lips, his eyes half-lidded and dark with something you had never seen so openly reflected in him before. He did not speak immediately. Instead, he rested his forehead against yours as though grounding himself, as though he needed the proximity to steady whatever storm still swirled beneath the surface of his carefully constructed composure. Then, without warning, his fingers slipped around your wrist, not in a controlling grip but in a silent request, a plea for you to follow.

You let him.

He guided you deeper into the gardens, past the hedges sculpted into perfect curves, past the lanterns casting soft golden pools of light across the gravel paths, past the stone benches where chaperones normally lingered. Tonight, however, the weather had turned cold enough that most guests remained indoors, and Anthony led you beyond where propriety dared follow. You walked until the sounds of the ballroom faded into a distant hum, until only the rustling of leaves and the faint chirp of night birds remained, until a tall arch of roses opened into a small, hidden alcove you had never seen before, shielded by overgrown vines and the heavy canopy of a willow tree.

Anthony stopped there.

He turned to you slowly, the moonlight catching the sharp lines of his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest, and the raw emotion etched into every inch of his expression. He reached out once more, brushing his fingers against your cheek with a gentleness that nearly brought tears to your eyes, and you realized then that beneath his jealousy and frustration and fierce determination, there had always been something softer waiting to be acknowledged.

He stepped closer, but this time you did not retreat. The alcove was quiet enough that you could hear both of your breaths, quick and uneven, intertwining in the stillness.

“I did not bring you here to argue,” Anthony said at last, his voice low and steady, vibrating with sincerity. “Nor to claim you as something you are not. I brought you here because I needed a moment where no one else existed. I needed to breathe without someone watching. I needed to see you without pretense or audience or pride standing between us.”

You swallowed hard, your voice nearly breaking when you tried to speak. “Anthony, we should not be alone in a place like this.”

He nodded once, but the faint smile that lifted at the corner of his mouth told you he had no intention of stepping back. “I know,” he murmured. “I know exactly how improper this is. I know exactly how it would look if anyone were to find us. And still, I cannot bring myself to walk away. Not when I have spent days unable to sleep, unable to think of anything but the words you threw at me, the truth buried in them, the way I have failed to say what I should have said long before now.”

He moved closer, slowly, giving you every chance to retreat. You did not.

“I am jealous,” he admitted, his voice tightening on the word. “And I hate it. I hate the way it twists inside me when another man looks at you, not because I believe you belong to me, but because I have never cared for anyone the way I care for you, and losing you terrifies me more than I know how to express.”

You felt your breath catch.

Anthony leaned in, his nose brushing yours, the proximity making your pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with fear. “I am not proud of how I behaved,” he continued softly. “I am not proud of the childishness you called out, nor the silence I allowed to stretch between us. But I am done pretending I am unaffected by you. I am done pretending I do not want you. And I will not stand by while someone else thinks he can have even a piece of what I have given my entire heart to.”

His thumb brushed your bottom lip, his eyes dropping to it with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine.

“If you still want me gone,” he whispered, “say it now. I will leave. I will walk back into that ballroom and pretend none of this happened. I will let you dance with whomever you wish. But if you do not want me gone, if you want me even half as much as I want you, then tell me to stay.”

Your voice trembled. “Anthony…”

He stepped closer still, his body nearly touching yours, the scent of him warm and familiar and devastating. “Tell me,” he pleaded quietly. “Tell me to stay.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. “Stay.”

Anthony inhaled sharply, a sound that was almost a groan, and then his hands slid to your waist, drawing you against him with a confidence that bordered on reverence. His lips found yours again, deeper, more urgent, more consuming, and he kissed you with the kind of need that had been simmering beneath every glance and every tension-filled silence you had shared these past weeks.

His mouth trailed along your jaw, down the line of your throat, each kiss slow and deliberate, as though he were memorizing the feel of your skin against his lips. You gasped softly when he pressed you gently back against the stone wall behind you, his hands framing your hips with a touch that sent heat through every part of you, his voice a low whisper against your neck. “You have ruined me,” he murmured. “You have utterly, completely ruined me.”

You lifted his chin, guiding his mouth back to yours. “Then be ruined,” you whispered. “With me.”

Anthony’s breath shook as he kissed you again.

And in that secluded corner of the garden, hidden from the world, you allowed yourselves to stop pretending.

——————

There had been many words used to describe Anthony Bridgerton in the ton over the years. Commanding. Stern. Unyielding. Overly protective. Impossible. The sort of man who entered any room as if the air itself made way for him out of pure instinct. The sort of man who wore responsibility like a second skin and pride like a perfectly tailored coat. But not a single one of those words fit quite as perfectly as the one currently being shrieked across Aubrey Hall’s gardens.

“Papa!”

You barely had time to turn before your daughter hurtled toward him with the unstoppable velocity of a very small force of nature. Her slippers pattered over the grass, curls flying, arms already outstretched in expectation. Anthony, who had once stared down pistols at dawn, outridden storms, commanded younger brothers with nothing more than a level stare, and taken on the viscountcy before most men had learned to shave properly, reacted with something very close to panic.

“Careful, sweetheart, you will knock me over,” he warned. Yet his voice was already softening, already losing that sharp edge of vigilance he insisted was natural. His knees bent, his arms opened, and all the fierce authority of the Viscount of Bridgerton melted into the gentle readiness of a man who adored his child beyond reason.

She launched herself into his chest.

Anthony let out a rather theatrical sound that was half groan, half laugh, and wrapped her up with a practiced ease that made it clear he would never tire of this ritual. Her tiny hands cupped his cheeks at once, demanding his undivided attention. Her curls stuck adorably to her forehead, her entire face flushed with the joy of running simply because she could, because Papa was waiting, because the day was bright and the world was safe.

“Papa,” she said in that solemn tone children use when they believe the fate of nations hangs on their words. “You pwomised we go pick flowews today.”

Anthony kissed her cheek with reverent devotion. “We are going to pick flowers, darling. I was waiting for you.”

She frowned as if evaluating this statement for truthfulness. “But Mama says you get distwacted.”

You could not help the inelegant snort that escaped you.

Anthony turned sharply toward you. His mouth fell open with deep and immediate offense. “I do not get distracted.”

His daughter gasped. “You awe distwacted wight now!”

He blinked at the accusation, clearly stunned. “I am?”

She tapped his forehead with all the authority of a monarch. “Uh huh. You awe thinking about Mama. You always think about Mama.”

Your hand flew to your lips to hide your laugh, though the sparkle in Anthony’s eyes made it clear he heard it anyway. He shot you one of those looks that lived somewhere between affronted pride and helpless adoration. You had long ago learned he could hold both emotions at once with remarkable aptitude.

“I think about Mama sometimes,” he attempted with dubious dignity.

“Lots of times,” she corrected. “All the times.”

You stepped closer and brushed a curl from your daughter’s brow, letting your fingers linger in her hair. “He thinks about me quite a bit.”

Your daughter gasped again, an expression of pure betrayal spreading across her face. “Papa, you pwomised we go pick flowews and not think about Mama.”

Anthony exhaled with the dramatic suffering of a Shakespearean tragedy. “I suppose I can attempt to think about flowers instead of your mother.”

“Good,” she declared, wiggling until he set her down. “Come on. We need the pink ones. Mama likes pink.”

You arched a brow. “Do I?”

Your daughter nodded with an earnest certainty that brooked no disagreement. “Yes. You like pink because Papa says you look pwetty in pink.”

Anthony made a strangled sound and glanced sharply downward as if the grass had become fascinating.

You knelt, tying the ribbon on your daughter’s dress to keep it from slipping. “And what does Papa like? What flowers are his favorite?”

She pressed a finger to her chin and pondered the question as if selecting a treaty for a nation. Her tiny shoulders rose and fell with effort. At last she announced, “Papa likes Mama.”

Anthony’s eyes shut as if he had been felled where he stood.

Then, with the merciless innocence of childhood, she added, “Mama is his favrit flowew.”

Anthony was gone. Truly gone. The Viscount of Bridgerton, feared and admired by half of England, reduced to a melted pile of adoration in his own garden.

He swept her up again although she had no need for carrying. “You are far too wise for your age.”

She smiled with all her teeth. “Does that mean I can have a biscuit before supper, wight?”

Anthony hesitated as if he were preparing to plead a case before the House of Lords. “Well. I suppose if your mother says yes. Then perhaps we could allow a very small biscu-”

“No,” you said.

Your daughter stared at Anthony.

Anthony stared at you.

Your daughter leaned in. “Papa. Use your charm.”

Anthony whispered, “That does not work on Mama.”

She looked genuinely horrified. “But you said Papa charm works on evewyone.”

“Everyone but your mother,” he muttered.

“I heard that,” you said, though your amusement was already giving you away.

Anthony straightened with that irresponsible smile that had once caused more than one debutante to swoon. “Darling wife.”

“You may beg all you like. The answer is still no,” you replied.

He sighed, as though denied a great and noble purpose. “Very well. No biscuit.”

Your daughter groaned with all the misery a small body could hold.

Anthony hitched her more securely onto his hip. “Come along. We shall pick flowers for your mother.”

She brightened instantly. “Yes. Pink ones. And white ones. And a yewwow one if Papa can find it because Papa says he can find anything.”

You tilted your head. “Does he?”

Anthony gave you a look filled with wicked promise. “Anything.”

Your daughter tugged his cheek. “Papa, I want a pink flowew crown.”

“Then you shall have the most beautiful flower crown in all of England,” he declared with a tone of absolute conviction.

She squealed with delight and buried her face in his neck, where she often hid when her happiness felt too big for the world.

The three of you walked deeper into the gardens. Aubrey Hall shimmered behind you, framed in the late afternoon sunlight that cast a warm gold across the lawns. Bees hummed lazily. Roses climbed trellises in a riot of color. The familiar gravel paths curved like old friends welcoming the family that lived here.

Anthony set your daughter down near a cluster of wildflowers that had sprouted from the softer edge of the path. She crouched immediately, hands reaching with reverence.

“Papa, look. This one is pink like Mama’s dress last night.”

Anthony crouched beside her, his large frame folding with surprising ease. You watched him with quiet warmth. He had always possessed a restless energy, a sharp intensity born from years of responsibility placed too early on too young a man. But here, among flowers and sunlight, with his daughter’s small hand gripping his, that intensity softened into something gentler. Something truer.

“Indeed,” he murmured. “It is a very fine pink.”

“Is Mama pretty in pink?” she asked.

Anthony picked one of the flowers with careful fingers. He examined it for a long moment before answering, his voice low and sincere. “Mama is pretty in anything.”

You felt your cheeks warm and pretended to examine a white blossom so you would not have to meet his gaze. You heard his soft chuckle behind you, followed by your daughter’s delighted squawk as he lifted her up again.

“Papa, you awe being distwacted again,” she informed him.

“I am picking flowers,” he insisted.

“For Mama,” she reminded him with a knowing tone far beyond her years.

He sighed in mock defeat. “Yes. For Mama.”

The two of them began gathering blooms of every shade they could find. You watched them from a few steps away, half participant, half enchanted observer. Anthony moved with the ease of a man who had never imagined this version of his life, yet now could not imagine living without it.

He handed your daughter a blossom. “What do you think of this one?”

She squinted at it. “It looks like Mama’s smile.”

Anthony paused, and something in his expression shifted. The proud tilt of his shoulders eased. His eyes softened. His entire being seemed to warm from the inside out. He looked at you then, not quickly, not bashfully, but with a steady reverence that stole your breath every single time.

You looked away first.

Your daughter piled her flowers into her skirt, the fabric straining under the growing bouquet. Anthony bent to help her, tying the ends of her skirt to form a makeshift basket. She laughed when he lifted the bundle as if it weighed a hundred stones.

“You are very strong, Papa.”

He nodded gravely. “I am aware.”

“Is that why Mama married you?” she asked.

You choked on air.

Anthony looked smugly delighted. “Part of it,” he said. He glanced at you with a teasing glint. “Ask her.”

You attempted to school your features. “I married him because he is very stubborn.”

“Stubborn,” your daughter repeated, testing the word on her tongue.

“And very protective,” you added.

“Protective,” she echoed.

“And because he thinks of his family before all else.”

Your daughter looked impressed. “Papa is like a knight.”

Anthony puffed out his chest. “You see? Your mother understands my virtues.”

————

Walking deeper into the garden, the late sun spilling over the three of you. The world felt warm and vast, yet entirely contained within the family you had built.

Your daughter tugged your hand. “Mama, Papa says he can find anything.”

“Did he?” you asked softly.

She nodded with certainty. “Yes. He said he can find anything he looks for.”

Anthony stepped beside you, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “I did not know what I was looking for until I found you.”

Your heart fluttered, a sensation that felt far too girlish for a woman who had been married for years. Yet that was the danger of Anthony Bridgerton. He could ruin you with a single line, a single look, a single moment of unguarded sincerity.

You lifted your chin. “Are you trying to charm me now?”

“Trying?” he repeated with an air of insult. “I thought I was succeeding.”

Your daughter shoved a handful of flowers at him. “Papa, stop thinking about Mama. We need more pink ones.”

“Of course we do,” he replied solemnly. “Your mother requires nothing less than the finest collection.”

You laughed and finally joined them among the blossoms. The three of you knelt together, hands brushing petals, stems, sunlight, laughter. The world felt simple in a way life rarely allowed. You began placing flowers in your daughter’s curls, weaving them idly. Anthony watched you both with a tenderness that nearly undid him.

When your daughter turned, she declared triumphantly, “Papa, I am a flowew princess.”

Anthony touched his forehead in a mock salute. “Your Grace, it is an honor.”

She giggled and pressed a pink flower into his hair with all the regal grace of a toddler. “Now you awe a flowew king.”

You bit your lip to contain your laughter. Anthony froze with a dignity that should not have survived such a situation and said, “I accept this title with great pride.”

Then he looked at you.

And suddenly the moment deepened. His gaze lingered, warm and full and unbearably earnest. Fatherhood had not merely softened him. It had revealed him. It had peeled back all his defenses until only the truest parts of him remained.

You tried to breathe normally.

“Come on, Mama,” your daughter said, tugging your hand. “Your flowews await you.”

Anthony extended his hand to you, palm open, patient and sure.

You took it.

Together, the three of you walked into the sunlit heart of the garden, surrounded by color and laughter and a love that felt endless.

—————

It had not always been like this between you and Anthony Bridgerton, all tense silences and sharp glances and words that seemed to scrape against already bruised feelings, but somewhere along the way your almost-friendship, your almost-something, had slipped from teasing warmth into a slow burn that neither of you knew how to navigate. In the beginning you had dismissed him easily, thinking him too sure of himself, too accustomed to women falling at his feet, too wrapped in duty to know what real affection looked like, and for a while it had been simple to remain clever and cool in his presence. But then he ruined the safety of that distance by noticing the smallest things about you, by remembering your favorite flowers, by stepping between you and unkind whispers before you even realized he had done so, by seeking you out at every gathering under the guise of chance even though everyone else saw the truth long before you allowed yourself to.

And then he wounded you.

He had said something careless, too sharp for the moment, too intimate for the distance you tried to maintain between you. After a long evening at Aubrey Hall, after you had teased him for being proud and impossible, he retaliated with a truth you had not been prepared to hear. You hide behind sarcasm because you are terrified of your own feelings. The words had landed like a slap, and you had stared at him, stunned, humiliated, the air knocked out of you not because he was wrong but because he had seen you too clearly. You had walked out without a reply, expecting him to follow, to apologize, to show something, anything, that meant you mattered, but he let you go, and the quiet click of the door behind you felt like a small betrayal you had no right to feel and yet felt all the same.

The next day you avoided him, and he avoided you in return, and suddenly the two of you were locked in a battle of pride and longing neither wanted to lose but neither knew how to yield. All of that unspoken heat, all the arguments that tasted too much like desire and the silences that felt like promises waiting to break, coiled tighter and tighter until tonight, when you walked into the ball determined to keep your dignity while he walked in determined to hide the fact that he was unraveling.

From across the ballroom, you saw him watching you with that infuriating mix of restraint and yearning, and something inside you rebelled, because how dare he look at you like that after letting you walk away, how dare he think you would simply come back to him because his jaw tightened or his eyes softened. So you danced with another man, not because you wanted to, but because you needed to breathe again, needed to remind him and yourself that your worth did not rest on the whims of Anthony Bridgerton.

It worked instantly.

The Viscount went still, utterly still, his jaw clenching, his hand tightening around the glass he held until you feared it might shatter. Every polite laugh you gave your partner struck him like a blow, every light touch of your hand across another man’s shoulder made his expression darken with something dangerously close to possession. His jealousy was not subtle. It radiated from him like heat, like pressure, like a storm waiting to break, until you almost wanted to step away out of mercy but refused, because he had made you ache for two days and now he could feel a fraction of it.

When he finally moved, he moved as though the floor belonged to him, slicing through dancers and onlookers with polite apologies spoken in a tone that left no room for argument. He stepped between you and your partner without hesitation, without shame, without the slightest pretense of propriety. Your poor dance partner barely had time to stammer an objection before Anthony offered him a look sharp enough to send him retreating in confusion.

You glared at him, breathless with disbelief and anger.

“How dare you,” you hissed, pulling your hand from his grip.

“You are making a spectacle of yourself.”

“And you are making a spectacle of us,” he shot back, voice low. “You know precisely what you are doing.”

“I know only that I am not yours,” you snapped, lifting your chin. “And I refuse to be treated as though I am.”

For a moment he simply stared at you, fighting some internal battle, his breaths uneven, his eyes burning with everything he refused to say aloud. The music swelled around you, dancers turning with unbothered grace while the two of you stood locked in a war only the two of you understood.

“I will not do this here,” you stated, stepping back. “I will not play whatever childish game you think this is. If you wish to be offended, that is your burden to carry, not mine.”

Then, to the absolute shock of half the ballroom, you turned away from him and left. Anthony Bridgerton had likely never been dismissed in his life, and certainly not by a woman he wanted to the point of madness. Gasps followed you but you kept walking, heart pounding, skin hot with frustration, air feeling too thick to breathe.

You stepped out into the quiet corridor leading to the gardens, needing distance, needing the cool night air to stop your thoughts from spiraling. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, a wave of relief washed over you.

Then you heard footsteps.

Firm, determined, unmistakable.

“Do not follow me,” you warned, not turning around.

Which of course meant he kept going.

He ignored your warning, ignored propriety, ignored the fact that being alone with you could ruin everything you had both tried to deny. He reached you just as you stepped into the lantern lit garden, his hand catching your wrist, not tightly, but firmly enough to turn you toward him.

“You should go back,” you said, breath shallow. “We should not be alone. If someone sees—”

“Let them,” he said, and the quiet intensity of his voice sent a tremor down your spine. “I do not care.”

“Well I do,” you insisted, trying to pull your hand away, but he held it, gently, stubbornly, with a look that made your pulse stumble. “Anthony, this is not appropriate.”

“No,” he murmured, stepping closer, “but neither is the way you make me feel, and I cannot seem to stop that either.”

“Stop what?” you whispered, almost afraid to ask.

His eyes dropped to your lips, and in that moment you knew he was past pretending, past restraint, past every wall he had tried to keep between you.

“Stop wanting you,” he said, and the words seemed to melt the air between you.

“Anthony,” you breathed, backing up until your spine met the cool stone of a garden pillar.

He followed.

Not predatory.

Not cruel.

But with a certainty that left your knees weak, with a longing that had been simmering beneath every argument, with a confession burning behind his eyes that he had no intention of taking back.

“You would protest,” he said softly, one hand bracing beside your head while the other hovered inches from your waist. “You would argue. You would tell me I have no right.”

“Because you do not,” you whispered, voice shaking.

“And yet,” he murmured, leaning in, “you feel it too.”

You did.

God help you, you did.

“Anthony,” you tried again, but the word came out like a plea.

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, as though he was giving you one last chance to push him away.

You did not.

And he knew it.

His voice dropped to a whisper, rough and reverent.

“Forgive me.”

He kissed you before you could think, before you could build your walls again, before either of you could pretend you did not want this, and the moment his lips met yours the world seemed to tilt in a way that felt dangerously inevitable.

The kiss began like a question, but it turned into something far more dangerous the moment you answered it. Anthony deepened it with a desperate certainty, as though he had waited far too long, as though he had spent months choking on all the words he had never dared to speak. His hands cupped your face with a gentleness that contradicted the hunger in his kiss, his body pressing just close enough for you to feel the tremor of restraint running through him. When you gasped softly against his lips, he exhaled like a man finally breaking the surface of the water after drowning beneath it. The kiss grew hotter, deeper, achingly earnest, and for a moment you didn’t push him away. For a moment you leaned into him, fingers curling in his coat, heart beating against his like a frantic confession neither of you could deny.

Then reality crashed into you with brutal force.

You pushed at his chest, breathless, shaking, your lips swollen from the intensity of the moment he had stolen from you. Anthony stepped back immediately, chest heaving, eyes wild and dark with both desire and regret.

“No,” you whispered. “We should not have done that.”

He looked stricken, as though the words physically hurt him. “You did not seem so certain a moment ago.”

“Because you caught me off guard,” you snapped, stepping away from him, wiping your lips with trembling fingers as though desperate to erase the evidence. “This is wrong. You should not have kissed me. You had no right.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“You have ruined me,” you said, and your voice cracked nearly in half. “Do you understand that?”

He flinched.

“Anthony… I am no longer untouched. No longer respectable. No man will want me now.”

He stared at you in disbelief, almost horrified, as though he could not fathom that you would think so little of yourself.

“You are not ruined,” he said firmly.

“You know it is the truth,” you insisted, turning away so he would not see the humiliation burning behind your eyes. “A kiss is enough to put my reputation in jeopardy, and you…” your voice broke again, “you took it without asking.”

His breath left him in a ragged exhale. “If I had asked, you would have run from me.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Because I have sense.”

“Sense,” he echoed bitterly, stepping closer, his voice low and thick with emotion. “Is that what you call this distance you cling to? This refusal to admit what is right in front of you?”

“It is what I call self-preservation,” you shot back. “Because you and I are impossible.”

He shook his head, almost angry now, though not at you, at the situation, at himself, at the universe that dared to make a woman like you someone he could not simply choose without consequence.

“You are only denying the truth,” he said, voice trembling with the effort of holding himself together. “You feel what I feel.”

You closed your eyes, because the truth of it was a curse.

“It does not matter,” you whispered, willing your heartbeat to slow, willing the world to make sense again.

“It matters to me,” he said, stepping close enough that you could feel the heat of his body but not close enough to touch you. “And I think it matters to you more than you want to admit.”

“It matters only in the sense that it will destroy us both,” you said.

“Then let it,” he replied softly, fiercely. “Let it destroy me. But do not pretend you did not kiss me back.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Anthony…”

You didn’t know if it was a plea or a warning.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you feel nothing, and I will walk away.”

Your lips parted, but the words wouldn’t come. The lie stuck in your throat, thick and aching.

His eyes softened, understanding far too clearly.

“You see?” he murmured. “You cannot. Because this, what is between us, is not something a simple kiss could ruin. It was already changing us long before either of us dared to speak it.”

Your heart hammered painfully.

You hated that he was right.

You hated that he knew it.

You hated that the worst part of being kissed by him was how desperately you wanted him to do it again.

“Please,” you whispered, stepping back before you could fall into him again. “Do not make this harder.”

“It was already hard,” he said quietly. “You are only frightened because the moment I kissed you, it became real.”

You swallowed. Hard.

Maybe it had.

—————

The night had already slipped well past the acceptable hour for a young lady to be awake, but sleep had refused to claim you, fluttering just out of reach like a skittish bird. The Bridgertons had hosted a dinner that evening in honor of your engagement, a gathering meant to be warm and celebratory, filled with laughter and music and polite admiration. And while it was all of those things, there had been something else beneath the surface whenever Anthony looked at you, something that tightened the air between you until your breath caught without warning.

It was not nerves. It was not fear.

It was anticipation.

It was something you had no name for.

You slipped out to the terrace, wrapped in a thin shawl, letting the cool night air brush over your skin. The garden was quiet, the lanterns glimmering like low stars along the hedges. You breathed slowly, trying to settle your racing thoughts. It felt impossible that you were to be married in only a handful of days. Impossible that your life was about to change so completely. Impossible that Anthony Bridgerton, of all people, had chosen you with such absolute certainty.

You heard footsteps behind you and turned, expecting perhaps a maid sent to find you. But the moment you saw him, tall and unmistakable in the dim light, your heart leapt in your throat.

Anthony stopped a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight but not stiff. His brows softened the moment he saw your expression.

“Could not sleep?” he asked quietly, his voice a warm rumble in the still air.

“No,” you admitted. “Too much thinking.”

Anthony stepped closer until the lantern light touched his face, revealing something tender in his eyes, something he rarely let anyone see. “About the wedding?”

“About everything.” You hesitated, then added, “It all feels so… enormous.”

Anthony nodded, as though he understood that feeling better than anyone. “It is enormous,” he said softly. “Marriage is not a small promise. It is not a fleeting thing. It is a life, bound with another. And it is natural to feel overwhelmed.”

You exhaled slowly, your gaze drifting toward the garden. “Are you overwhelmed?”

Anthony moved so quietly you did not realize he had stepped beside you until the warmth of him brushed your arm. You looked up, startled by his proximity, but not displeased.

“I am many things,” he said gently, “but I am not overwhelmed by the idea of marrying you.”

Your breath caught. “No?”

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You bring me peace. And I have spent far too many years without it.”

You lowered your eyes, heat rising in your cheeks. You had grown accustomed to his charm, his intelligence, his wit, but when he spoke with sincerity, when his voice softened like this, you felt undone in ways you could not name.

He held out a hand. “Walk with me.”

You placed your hand in his without hesitation, and he led you down the steps into the garden, where the lanterns cast soft shadows on the pathway. You walked in silence for a few moments, his thumb brushing lightly along the back of your hand in a rhythm so soothing you felt yourself relax with each step.

When you reached a quiet clearing, he finally spoke again.

“There is something I wanted to ask you,” he said. “Something I have been thinking about all evening.”

You looked up at him curiously. “What is it?”

Anthony took a slow breath, searching your face with an intensity that made your pulse race. “Are you afraid of loving me?”

The question hit you so unexpectedly that you stopped walking. He turned to face you fully, eyes unwavering, giving you no room to hide behind polite answers.

“Why would I be afraid?” you whispered.

“Because I know myself,” he said, his voice low. “I know I can be difficult. Proud. Overbearing. I know I carry more responsibility than any man should, and I have seen what that weight has done to me. I know that my love is… intense. And I fear it may overwhelm you.”

Your lips parted, your heart twisting at the vulnerability in his voice. It was not often that Anthony exposed the fragile pieces of himself. It was rarer still for him to voice fear.

“You do not overwhelm me,” you said softly.

His jaw tightened as if he needed to hear it again.

You stepped closer. “Anthony, you do not overwhelm me.”

The breath he released was barely audible, but the relief in it was profound. He reached up and brushed a curl from your forehead, his touch gentle, reverent.

“I want to be a good husband to you,” he murmured. “I want to give you more joy than burden. More laughter than worry. More love than fear.”

“And you will,” you whispered.

“Will I?” he asked quietly. “Sometimes I wonder if the life I lead is too heavy for someone as bright as you.”

A small laugh slipped from you, not mocking but warm. “Anthony, you are not as heavy as you think.”

He blinked. “No?”

“No,” you said, smiling softly. “You are serious, yes. And protective. And occasionally infuriating. But you are also kind. Thoughtful. Good. You carry burdens so no one else has to. And you love with your entire heart. That is not heaviness. That is strength.”

A slow, disbelieving smile touched his lips, as though your words warmed him from the inside out. He lifted your hand to his chest again, pressing it over his heartbeat just as he had before.

“Then allow me to show you something,” he whispered.

Before you could ask, he stepped behind you and slid his hands down your arms, guiding them gently upward.

“Close your eyes.”

You obeyed.

His voice was at your ear, quiet, steady. “Do you feel the breeze?”

“Yes.”

“Do you hear the garden?”

“Yes.”

“And do you feel me behind you?”

Your breath stilled. “Yes.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Because this is what marriage is. The world moving around us, the wind shifting, life changing, yet always this. Always me behind you. Always you before me. Always us together.”

Your eyes fluttered open, your heart full.

Anthony turned you gently, his hands settling at your waist, his forehead leaning against yours. “You do not need to fear anything, least of all marrying me. I will spend every day proving that you were right to choose me.”

You slid your hands up his chest, feeling the strength beneath his coat, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“I never doubted you,” you whispered. “Not once.”

This time, he did not hesitate.

He lowered his head and kissed you, slow and soft at first, then deeper as you melted into him, your hands curling into his lapels. His arms tightened around you, bringing you flush against him, the world fading until there was only the warmth of his lips and the certainty of his devotion.

When he finally drew back, his voice was barely a breath.

“Come back inside, my love,” he murmured, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “The night is nearly gone, and I want you rested for all the days we have yet to live.”

You smiled, your heart full and steady, your earlier nerves forgotten entirely.

You took his hand.

He laced his fingers with yours.

And together, you walked back toward the house, ready for whatever tomorrow would bring.

—————

Everyone at Shiz had a talent for gossip, but when it came to you and Fiyero, they practically turned it into a competitive sport, whispering in the hallways, nudging each other as the two of you walked past, openly smirking whenever Fiyero’s hand brushed your back just a moment too long or whenever you laughed a little too hard at something he said. You insisted you were just friends. Fiyero insisted exactly the same thing. Yet somehow you kept finding yourselves walking to class together, sitting together, studying together, getting into trouble together, and sharing quiet moments that stretched just a little too close to something neither of you could quite name.

He had been your closest companion since the day you met him, all bright eyes and careless smiles, the type of man who seemed to glide through life with charm as his compass, but with you he softened in ways that made people stare with open curiosity. He listened to you, remembered things you said, leaned in whenever you spoke as though your thoughts were more interesting than anything else happening in Oz, a fact that only made your friends give you pointed looks every time Fiyero walked into a room and immediately sought you out with that unmistakable, boyishly eager grin.

The night of the Ozdust Ballroom party, that curiosity turned into certainty. Glinda had decorated every surface with shimmering enchantments that twisted light into soft colors, the music swelling through the room while students danced in groups and pairs, laughing beneath the floating gold dust that drifted from the chandeliers. You arrived with a small circle of friends, not expecting anything more than a night of dancing, but your stomach still tightened when you saw Fiyero already there, leaning casually against a pillar with a drink in hand and a smile that grew noticeably brighter the moment his eyes found yours.

He pushed away from the pillar before you had taken a full step into the room, weaving through clusters of people until he was in front of you, that familiar crooked grin tugging at his mouth as he gave a playful bow. His voice was warm when he spoke, almost too warm, and several nearby girls exchanged knowing glances. They all knew. Every last one of them.

“I was beginning to think you were going to make me wait all night,” he said, lifting his brows in an expression halfway between teasing and nervous, the type of expression he never wore unless he was looking at you.

You laughed despite yourself. “I did not know you were waiting.”

Fiyero shrugged, the movement casual, although the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “I always wait for you.”

The words, simple as they were, rippled through you in a way that made your breath catch, and before you could think of a reply, Glinda bounced up behind you with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes, whispering just loud enough for you to hear, “Would you two stop pretending you are not in love and just dance already?”

You shot her a glare. Fiyero choked on his drink. And Glinda merely floated away with a satisfied smile.

The music shifted to something softer, a slow melody that wrapped itself around the crowded room like a spell. You started to step aside, planning to find your friends and ignore the twinge in your chest, but Fiyero’s hand caught yours with surprising decisiveness, his fingers warm and steady as they curled around your own.

“Do not run away from me,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him, startled by the sincerity in his eyes. He was not teasing now. He was not playing the charming prince. He was simply Fiyero. The Fiyero who listened when you talked. The Fiyero who found excuses to sit beside you. The Fiyero who always seemed to be watching you even when he thought you would not notice.

“Come with me,” he added, giving your hand the slightest tug.

You let him lead you to the center of the ballroom, your heart thudding with a mix of nerves and something sweeter. The moment he placed his hands on your waist, your body nearly betrayed you by leaning into him instinctively, as though it had been waiting for this for far too long. His touch was gentle, careful in a way he would never admit to, and the heat of his palms seeped through the fabric of your dress, sending a quiet ache through your chest.

Fiyero pulled you closer, his breath brushing your temple as the two of you began to sway to the soft rhythm, moving slowly in a bubble of quiet that separated you from the crowd. People stared, of course. They always stared. But for once you did not care. Neither did he.

“You look incredible tonight,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Though you always do.”

Your heart fluttered at the compliment. “You say that to everyone.”

“No,” he said, the word firm and immediate. “I really do not.”

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself as you looked up into his eyes, only to find him already watching you with an expression that made your breath catch. He was nervous. Actually nervous. Fiyero Tiggular, the boy who never ran out of confidence, was staring at you as if waiting for permission to breathe.

“Fiyero,” you whispered.

He stepped a fraction closer, his forehead almost touching yours. “Do you know how long I have wanted this?”

Your pulse jumped.

“Fiyero…”

“Everyone sees it,” he continued softly. “Everyone except us. Or maybe we did see it. Maybe we were too afraid to say anything because it mattered too much.”

You tried to reply but your throat tightened, the emotions rising too quickly, too unexpectedly. His thumb brushed your waist, a silent reassurance that grounded you in place.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice trembling with a sincerity you had never heard from him before. “Tell me to step away and I will. I swear I will.”

But you did not move.

You did not breathe.

You only stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it.

“I will not tell you to stop,” you whispered.

Something in him broke then, something unguarded and unrestrained, and before you could register the movement, Fiyero cupped your jaw with both hands and kissed you, right there in the middle of the Ozdust, in full view of everyone who had spent the last month whispering about the two of you. It was soft at first, tentative, almost questioning, as if asking you again and again whether this was real, whether you wanted this as much as he did. You answered by sliding your hands up his chest, looping your arms around his neck, pressing closer until the kiss deepened with a breathless urgency that made him exhale a shaky sound against your mouth.

Fiyero pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his smile bright, disbelieving, beautifully vulnerable.

“I should have done that a long time ago,” he whispered.

You laughed softly, your fingers brushing his jaw. “Yes. You should have.”

He kissed you again. And again. And again, each kiss sweeter and more certain than the last, while the music swelled and the room spun and the world seemed to fall away until nothing remained except the two of you.

Everyone at Shiz had known.

Everyone but you and him.

But not anymore.

Tonight, under shimmering enchantments and golden light, Fiyero finally made his move. And you finally kissed him back.

—————

It began innocently enough, or at least it would have looked that way to anyone else.

Your daughter stood in the drawing room in her newest gown, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes bright with the kind of fluttery hope only fifteen year old girls in the early stages of infatuation could ever possess.

“Papa,” she said with a shy smile, “Leo is calling today with his parents. He asked if he might show me the new sketchbook he has been working on. May we sit on the terrace if Mama approves?”

Anthony’s teacup froze halfway to his lips.

You did not need to see his face to feel the tension erupt through the room.

The cup clinked back onto the saucer so hard you feared it might crack.

“Absolutely not,” Anthony said.

Your daughter blinked. “Papa, we would not be alone. Mama said she would accompany us.”

“I did not agree to such a thing,” he snapped.

Your daughter glanced at you in confusion. “But Mama, you said only yesterday that you would chaperone if Leo came to call.”

Anthony turned sharply. His voice was quiet, but it was the quiet that preceded storms. “You agreed to this without consulting me.”

You set aside your embroidery. “Anthony, she is merely sitting on the terrace with a boy whose family has been calling on us for years.”

“He is not sitting with her on any terrace,” Anthony said, rising to his full height. “He is not sitting with her anywhere. I knew allowing him in this house was a mistake.”

Your daughter stiffened. “Papa, that is unfair.”

Anthony’s eyes flashed. “What is unfair is a fifteen year old girl believing she is old enough to entertain suitors when she is still a child.”

The word child hit her like a slap.

“I am not a child,” she said quietly.

Anthony scoffed. “You most certainly are.”

Your daughter’s voice wavered. “Papa, I only want to talk to him. It is not as if he is proposing.”

Anthony slammed the saucer down this time. “He will not be proposing. Ever. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Silence fell like a shroud.

She stared at him, lips trembling, eyes shining. “Do you mean that?”

“I do,” Anthony said, and there was no hesitation. “You are far too young and far too naive to understand the intentions of boys your age. He will not court you. He will not speak to you without myself or your mother present. He will certainly not see you alone, and he will not be permitted to pretend you are anything more than a child who has convinced herself she is in love.”

Your daughter’s breath caught on a sob so small you almost missed it.

Then she turned and ran from the room, skirt brushing the floor in a rustle of panic and heartbreak.

The moment the door slammed upstairs, you looked at him. Really looked at him and you were furious.

“Anthony Bridgerton,” you said slowly, “you were cruel.”

He turned to you as if insulted. “I was honest.”

“You were heartless,” you corrected.

He paced across the room, dragging a hand through his hair in agitation. “She is too young. She is not ready. I will not have her falling for the first boy who pays her attention. I have seen what men like him are capable of. He is too eager. Too charming. Too interested.”

You stood. “He is fifteen, Anthony. Not a rake on the prowl.”

Anthony pointed sharply toward the stairs. “He looked at her with the eyes of a boy who believes he has a right to her.”

“He looked at her with admiration,” you countered, stepping closer. “You of all people should know the difference.”

Anthony stopped pacing. His chest rose and fell with uncontrolled emotion. “She is my daughter.”

“And she cannot stay a little girl forever.”

Anthony’s expression hardened. “She is not ready to be anything else.”

Your breath left you in frustration. “Anthony, listen to yourself. You cannot freeze her in time simply because you are afraid of what comes next.”

His eyes snapped to yours. The fear in them was wild and raw, the same fear he had the night she was born, the fear of a man who believed that love was a battlefield he could not win.

“You do not understand,” he said quietly.

“I am trying to,” you replied. “But you are making it very difficult.”

Anthony rubbed both hands over his face with something close to anguish. “She is my first daughter. My little girl. The thought of her being courted, of her being touched, of her being looked at the way I looked at you in our youth, it makes my blood run cold.”

“And that is natural,” you said, softening slightly. “But what you did was not protective. It was controlling. And it hurt her.”

He clenched his jaw. “Better she be hurt now than devastated later.”

You closed the distance between you, your voice low and tight. “Anthony. She came to you with excitement. She came to you with trust. And you shattered it.”

He looked at you, wounded. “You think I do not know that?”

You exhaled slowly. “Then go to her.”

Anthony shook his head. “She does not wish to see me.”

“Then go anyway,” you insisted, stepping closer, gripping his forearm. “Go up those stairs, open her door, and talk to her. Explain. Apologize. Be her father, not her warden.”

Anthony’s eyes softened, but not enough. “You would let her be courted?”

“I would let her grow,” you answered. “And I would chaperone, and guide, and protect. But I would not imprison her.”

Anthony’s voice lowered to a whisper. “And if this boy hurts her?”

“Then she will have her father,” you said, brushing your thumb across his hand. “A father who loves her enough to let her choose.”

Anthony trembled for a moment, emotion working through him with almost physical force.

Then he nodded and exhaled, the fight draining from his posture.

“I am not ready for this,” he admitted.

You cupped his cheek. “You never will be.”

He leaned into your palm like a man starved for reassurance.

Then he turned toward the stairs.

When he reached the doorway, he looked back at you with that same helpless, adoring expression that always undid you.

“Will you come with me?” he asked quietly.

You smiled gently. “Of course.”

Together, you climbed the stairs toward your daughter’s room.

Toward reconciliation.

Toward the next impossible stage of parenthood.

Anthony reached for your hand halfway up.

You squeezed his fingers in silent support.

He squeezed back.

A father preparing to apologize.

A husband leaning on the only person who understood his heart.

A man doing the hardest thing he knew how to do.

And the two of you walked the rest of the way together.

————

Your daughter’s door was closed, but the sound of quiet, hitched breathing was unmistakable. She had always cried softly, as if even her tears tried not to burden anyone. The sound pierced Anthony straight through the chest. You felt his hand tighten around yours, the pressure sharp and desperate, as if he needed physical grounding to prevent himself from turning around and fleeing from the very conversation he knew he had caused.

You knocked gently.

There was a pause, then a faint, trembling, “Come in.”

Your daughter sat on her bed with her knees pulled tightly to her chest, her eyes red, cheeks blotchy, hair slightly mussed in the way it always was when she cried. She looked so heartbreakingly young in that moment, and so much like Anthony when emotions overwhelmed him, that you felt a deep ache bloom behind your ribs.

Anthony froze in the doorway.

For a moment, he simply stared, as if he could not reconcile the fact that he had caused this. His shoulders sagged with shock and shame. He seemed to shrink, not physically, but in the same vulnerable way he did whenever the weight of his emotions threatened to crush him.

“Sweetheart,” you murmured, moving to sit beside her and smoothing a hand over her back.

Anthony took a step forward.

She flinched.

It was a tiny movement, almost imperceptible, but Anthony caught it instantly, and the pain that crossed his face was so raw that you felt your throat tighten.

“May I speak with you?” he asked quietly.

Your daughter wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You will only say that I am a child again.”

Anthony closed his eyes for a moment, visibly collecting himself. When he opened them, there was nothing defensive in his posture. Only remorse. Only helplessness. Only the fierce, overwhelming love that had shaped every inch of this man since the moment he became a father.

“I am sorry,” he said.

Your daughter’s chin quivered. “You are only saying that because Mama told you to.”

Anthony swallowed hard. “Your mother told me nothing I did not already know. I was cruel. I was frightened. And I took that fear out on you.”

She blinked, surprised. “Frightened of what?”

Anthony moved closer, pausing as if giving her the opportunity to stop him. When she did not, he knelt beside the bed, lowering himself so he was not towering over her. His voice softened into something almost fragile.

“Of losing you,” he said.

She frowned. “You are not losing me. I only wanted to speak with Leo.”

Anthony let out a shaky breath. “When I saw how you looked when you mentioned his name, when I saw the way your cheeks flushed and your eyes lit, I realized something. You are growing. You are becoming a young woman, and your heart is opening to new things. And I am not ready for that.” He paused and glanced toward the floor as if ashamed of the truth. “It feels as though time is moving faster than I can bear. One moment you were taking your first steps. The next you are asking about boys.”

Your daughter softened just a little, though her eyes glistened with fresh tears. “Papa, growing up does not mean I will stop loving you.”

Anthony looked up at her with that same devastated tenderness he sometimes wore when looking at you. “It feels that way,” he admitted. “It feels as if each new phase of your life takes you further away from me. And I am foolish enough to believe that if I hold on tightly enough, none of it will happen.”

You touched his shoulder, proud of him for saying what he had never once said aloud.

Your daughter uncrossed her knees, letting her feet dangle from the bed. “I like Leo,” she whispered. “He makes me laugh. And he listens when I speak.” She bit her lip. “But that does not mean I want to marry him.”

Anthony exhaled with relief so powerful that his shoulders slumped. “Thank God,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

Your daughter let out a small, watery laugh.

Then her expression sobered. “Papa, I do not want to hide things from you. I want to be able to tell you when I like someone. I want you to trust me.”

Anthony reached for her hand. He hesitated, waiting for permission. She offered it to him.

He held it gently, as if afraid she might break. “I do trust you,” he said. “I simply do not trust the world around you. You are precious to me. The most precious thing I have ever been given besides your mother. And I cannot bear the thought of you being hurt.”

She sniffed. “You hurt me today.”

Anthony’s voice cracked. “I know. And I swear to you I will spend every day making certain I never make you feel that way again.”

Your daughter studied him quietly for a long moment, as if weighing his sincerity. Then she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.

Anthony froze, overwhelmed.

Then he clutched her to his chest, burying his face in her hair, holding her with a trembling intensity that spoke of both apology and fear and love so deep it defied words.

“I am sorry,” he whispered again. “My darling girl, I am so sorry.”

She hugged him tighter. “I know, Papa. I forgive you.”

You watched the two of them, your heart swelling at the sight. This was the part of Anthony most people never saw. Everyone knew his strength, his authority, his fierce protection. But very few understood the boy inside him who feared losing the people he loved. The boy who had lost too much, too young, and who clung too tightly because he did not know any other way to love.

You approached the bed and brushed a tear from your daughter’s cheek. “Now,” you said softly, “shall we discuss what a chaperoned visit looks like?”

Your daughter nodded eagerly, glancing at Anthony cautiously.

Anthony cleared his throat. “If your mother accompanies you, and if you remain within sight, and if he understands that any improper behavior will result in his removal from this house, and if he never calls you darling, sweetheart, or any other ridiculous endearment, then perhaps we might consider it.”

Your daughter laughed. “Papa, he only calls me by my name.”

“Good,” Anthony said sharply. “He may continue doing so.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Anthony. She is not marrying him tomorrow.”

He huffed. “I am aware.”

You pressed a kiss to your daughter’s forehead. “You are a young lady now, my love. And your father and I will guide you. Together.”

Your daughter beamed. “Thank you, Mama.”

She looked at Anthony.

He squeezed her hand again. “You may see him.”

You saw the relief and excitement light her entire face, and it warmed you from within.

Anthony stood slowly, looking as if he had aged and grown younger at the same time.

When the three of you stepped out into the hallway, your daughter hurried downstairs, eager to send a note to her potential suitor.

You and Anthony remained at the top of the steps.

“You were wonderful,” you whispered.

Anthony let out a long, shaky breath and rested his forehead against yours. “I felt as though my heart was being torn out of my chest.”

“That is fatherhood,” you said gently.

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, as if grounding himself in the one person he trusted to teach him how to navigate the things that terrified him. “Promise me you will never let me make a fool of myself in front of her again.”

You smiled against his cheek. “I make no such promise.”

Anthony laughed softly and kissed you, slow and grateful, before lowering his voice to a murmur.

“I am still not ready for this,” he confessed.

You cupped his jaw lovingly. “You never will be. That is why she has both of us.”

He kissed your hand in that earnest, devoted way that always melted you. “Thank God for that.”

—————