a silent lurker

Oh, yes. There was little more in the world that could bring your fully-grown husband such child-like joy as being able to soak in a tub of steaming hot water for an hour or two. The sight always made you smile as you entered your bedroom: Anthony, half asleep, looking as if the stress had physically melted away. 

It was your favourite sight - and not just because of the exquisite view it granted you of his sculpted form - but because of how calm and peaceful he looked. It was as if he had transformed back into the mischievous and carefree boy you’d first fallen in love with all those years ago. Back when your only concerns had been not tripping on your skirt at your presentation, making sure you were actually asked to dance at a ball, and surviving the social season without embarrassing your family or getting yourself roped into some scandal. 

Whilst you knew neither you nor Anthony would ever change a single thing about your life together, you knew it came with a cost. In fact, today it had been enduring hours of talks with local tenants, the family’s book keeper, estate managers, and even several possible suitors looking to secure some kind of marriage contract with one of his younger sisters. (You’d been informed by several members of the household staff that those meetings had been remarkably swift, however, with each unfortunate man looking rather dejected as they were shown from the house). 

If you’d been able to spare him the pain or share his burden you would have, but unfortunately you’d been occupied with matters of your own. Being the lady of such a grand estate came with duties of its own, and you were quite done looking over seating arrangements, replying to correspondence, and paying social calls for one day.  

Still, at least you’d both survived to tell the tale - no wonder Anthony looked half asleep. Then again, maybe it had something to do with the open bottle of whiskey that sat on the table beside the tub. You knew without looking at the label which bottle it was, having smuggled it out of the library yourself to enjoy together. 

“Anthony Bridgerton!” A fake gasp of horror escaped your lips as you appeared in the doorway, a hand pressed to your chest. “You are a sneak and a traitor. That whiskey was for me too, you know.”

“And a good evening to you too, my love. Never fear, there’s plenty to share,” he teased, head relaxed, tipped backward as he took a sip from the glass in his hand. Your eyes were transfixed on the hollow of his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Besides, I would apologise but I simply couldn’t wait a minute longer. Not when I couldn’t feel my back from sitting at that desk all afternoon.”

The moan that escaped his lips was almost sinful as he sank a little lower in the water.  

“Well, you’re forgiven. You look far too content for me to even dream of being mad,” you sighed, drawing close and perching on the rim of the tub. Anthony handed over the whiskey glass with a soft smile, letting you take a sip of your own before you placed it back onto the table. 

You could feel the warmth seep into your bones immediately, even if that was also likely in part to your proximity to the tub and your naked husband. 

“Do you want me to wash your hair?”

Anthony’s eyebrows rose at the question, the surprise written across his face. “What?”

“You heard me,” you teased, reaching up to run your fingers through the soft strands of hair atop his head. “I can wash your hair, and get your back for you. Unless you’d rather do it yourself, or I can ring for someone?”

“What? No, that’s uh, that’s not necessary,” he chuckled, visibly flustered - which was amusing and perplexing. After all, it wasn’t as if you two hadn’t seen and touched every single inch of the other in the weeks since your wedding. However, he looked almost confused at the idea that you would offer such a thing. “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to,” you soothed. “Let me take care of you, for once. Husband.”

It was probably below the belt to purr his title like that, but you knew how that one little word had the power to reduce the great Viscount Bridgerton to a puddle. That, along with the warmth of the water and the buzz of the whiskey, made him almost pliant to your every whim. Still, you knew him well enough to recognise the lingering hesitation in his eyes as he nodded in agreement. 

He very rarely let his guard down or allowed anyone to assist him in any way. You sometimes believed that had the servants not been dependant upon their work to make a living that Anthony would have dismissed them long ago and tried to run the entire estate single handedly just to prove he could. That he was worthy of the title he bore, and that he was every bit as great a man, brother, and husband as his father. 

It appeared he was the same way when it came to letting himself be taken care of and it made your heart ache for the man you loved. 

Pressing a triumphant kiss to his lips, you swiftly manoeuvred yourself, pulling up a stool and grabbing a jug from the dresser.  

“Just relax… trust me,” you murmured, waiting until he did as he was bid. The gesture alone said volumes, more so than any words ever could. 

Waiting until his eyes were shut, you reached for the soap, tilting his head against your chest as you began to massage the mixture into his scalp. Yet again, your husband seemed to transform into a cat, purring with every touch in a way that made it suddenly very difficult to resist the urge to strip off and join your husband in the water instead. 

“Enjoying yourself?” You giggled as Anthony barely managed more than a groan in reply. 

It was taking every ounce of your self control to focus your attentions solely on Anthony, and not on the way his body seemed to be reacting to your ministrations. Thankfully, you were able to last long enough to finish the job, using the jug to rinse the water through his hair, making sure to angle his head upwards so the water ran off him instead of into his eyes. 

But you were only human; the minute you were done washing the last suds from his scalp you made your move. Sliding off the stool, you knelt beside him and reached out to caress his cheek, causing him to open his eyes almost sleepily. Leaning forward you planted a soft, delicate kiss to his lips, causing him to groan in response.

Without saying a word, his hands rose, twisting their way into your hair as he deepened his kiss. It was clear what he wanted next. 

Fleeing to the forest. It was all you could think to do…

Ash clung to the undersides of the leaves overhead, making everything look bruised and dimmer than usual. This was what Oz had become. Awash of the color and life it once had, and you knew who to blame.

Creatures that once chirped and chattered fell silent as you passed. Even the wind seemed cautious, moving through the branches with long, mournful sighs.

Tragic as it was, at least you were alone…

Since you’d helped Elphaba expose the Wizard—truly expose him, not merely embarrass him—the world had shifted against you. Emerald City guards hunted you. Citizens fearfully whispered your name like it was a curse, as if saying it aloud might summon you. The Wizard’s remaining loyalists wanted blood. Some wanted yours.

And Fiyero… You didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

He had vanished after Shiz, returned a different man in service of the Army of Oz, heroic, hardened, carrying a weight behind his eyes that didn’t belong to privileged princes. He had chosen sides long before you did, but neither of your choices aligned. Not entirely.

You could feel him approaching long before you heard him. By the time his voice broke through the trees behind you, soft and trembling, you already knew it was him.

“Stop running,” Fiyero said. Not an order, so much as a plea. You froze, and almost ran faster. Yet slowly, painfully, you turned.

He stood between the blackened trees, half-shadowed, half-lit by the fractured moonlight spilling through the canopy. His uniform was dusty from travel. His tawny hair was disheveled in a way that didn’t suit a prince of any kingdom, but suited him, strangely. His breath rose in shallow clouds from how fast he had pursued you.

But his gaze held the same softness it once had when you were both younger, when the world was easier, and he’d grin lazily across the Shiz courtyard just to make you roll your eyes. Except now there was something else too.

Fear.

He lowered the crossbow in his hands the moment you faced him fully. “Y/N…” He said your name like it cracked something inside him. “Thank Oz. I thought—” His throat closed. “I thought I’d find something else.”

He approached slowly, each step cautious, as though afraid one wrong movement would send you running again. As if you were a frightened deer, who could be sent scurrying at the sound of a branch snap.

You swallowed hard. “Why are you here, Fiyero?”

His laugh was small and painful. “Why am I—? You tell me. You vanish with a fugitive witch, help overthrow the Wizard, then disappear into the woods like some tragic folk tale. Of course I came.”

“You weren’t supposed to.” Your voice wavered, fragile as ash. “No,” he whispered. “But I did, didn’t I?”

There it was. That old warmth beneath the worry. The memory of falling for him without meaning to.

He stopped a few steps away. “Y/N…” His jaw tightened. “You helped Elphaba imprison the Wizard. You stood with her. Against Oz. Against the Council. Against—” “Against corruption,” you corrected. “Against evil. As you should be, as everyone should be.”

Fiyero’s mouth pressed into a thin, miserable line. “I know. I know. But that doesn’t change what they want to do to you now. The danger you’ve put yourself in.”

You looked away, unable to meet the sorrow in his face. “Is that why you’ve brought a weapon with you?” He exhaled softly, shaking his head. “I brought it for everyone else. Not you.” His fingers fluttered at his side, restless with unspoken things. “I can’t hurt you. You know that.”

You didn’t answer. His voice broke first.

“Do you remember Shiz?” he asked. “Before all this? Before the politics, before the fights, before the world demanded we grow up overnight?”

You nodded. A small, aching movement.

He smiled faintly. “I remember you studying by the library windows. I pretended not to stare. Everyone else noticed before I did.”

“Fiyero—”

“No. Let me say this.” He stepped closer, desperation shimmering beneath his calm facade. “I should have told you then. Before everything changed. Before I—” He swallowed hard. “Before I chose her. Before you chose this.”

His hand lifted, trembling, and for a moment it hovered between you, as though caught between reaching and retreating.

Finally, he touched your arm, in a soft and revering way. Your breath caught, and you wanted to flinch back, yet you stayed put. It shocked you, and yet as soon as you felt it again, you realized just how much you had been yearning for it.

“I’m supposed to bring you in,” he whispered. “They want a traitor for the crowd to fear. They want a public example. They want someone to blame for the chaos.” His fingers drifted to your wrist. “And the Council doesn’t care how you’re treated once you’re in their chains.”

He grimaced. “No doubt they think that by capturing you, it will be enough to lure Elphaba as well.” His grip tightened.

“I can’t let them have you,” he spoke, quiet and fierce. “Even if it means betraying Oz.”

Your chest ached at the confession. “Fiyero…what are you saying?”

“I’m saying…run.” His voice trembled on the edge of breaking. “Run before they find you. Before I have no choice. Before they see my hesitation and replace me with someone less…” He inhaled shakily. “Less attached.”

“Attached?” The word escaped you before you could soften it.

He looked stricken. “You know,” he whispered. “You always knew.”

Leaves rustled around your ankles. A single moonbeam cut through the trees, illuminating his face, the thin sheen of sweat on his brow, the softness in his eyes that he could only show when you were alone together like this.

You stepped closer still, so your chests nearly brushed. “Will I ever see you again?”

His breath hitched. “I shouldn’t promise that.”

“But do you want to?” Your voice was barely a whisper.

He closed the final distance gently, his forehead gently brushing against yours. “I never stopped wanting to,” he murmured. “Not even once.”

The world held still.

His lips brushed your cheek. But it was no mere kiss. It was a farewell.

“Go,” he breathed into your skin. “Before I make the wrong choice.” “But this is the wrong choice,” you whispered.

His eyes shone with something tender and tragic. “For Oz, maybe.” He cupped your cheek at last, warm thumb brushing just under your eye. “But not for me.”

He didn’t follow when he let you go. He only watched.

Watched you turn. Watched you walk into the dark. Watched the distance grow like a wound.

You didn’t know then if it were the last time you’d see each other. If the next time you did, you’d be true enemies.

But you knew this:

He had chosen you.

It wasn’t for long, your father reassured you, just a few hours running shop until all of his attention can go to you. You couldn’t find it in you to be upset with your father, but it didn’t make it feel any better. 

You’d only been in Winkie Country for about three weeks and finding anyone your age you could relate to was impossifying. 

So you found ways to fill your time. Ways to make the day feel somewhat special so it didn’t feel completely ordinary. 

You took to wandering. You knew the land of Winkie County was vast, but maps couldn’t capture the multitude of it all. Within it all, that’s when you found it: a wildflower field. 

It spread so far that it touched the horizon with its green and yellow and red and more. The grass was soft as you walked through, coming up high enough that your shoes disappeared into it. Most of all, it was peaceful as the sun shined down over you. 

You found a patch to sit in: not too many flowers that you might crush them and perfectly so that the sun might shine over you with comforting warmth. You stretched out, leaning back on your arms as your body slowly let go of the tension you naturally held. 

This was the silence you yearned for. A peace and break from stresses and worries and all you couldn’t stand. But unfortunately, as the light always comes with darkness to split it up and as goodness is always met with wickedness, a disruption of the highest bothers was soon introduced to your long sought-after peace. 

“Beautiful day isn’t it?” 

You didn’t need to crack open your eyes to know who cast a shadow over your sun. With a frown, you looked up and found exactly who you suspected. 

“Prince Tiglaar.” 

He cracked his smug smile and lifted a brow at you. “I told you, you can just call me Fiyero.” 

Your lips twitched downwards, your mood slowly dampening. But you didn’t let it irk you much, closing your eyes and laying flat on your back. “You’re in my sunlight Prince Tiglaar.” 

After only a moment, you felt the sun slip over you once more like a blanket. With a sigh, you smiled again, your peace finally coming back to you. At least until—

“I don’t see you out here often.” 

With a sluggish turn, you peeled your eyes open to find the boy laying beside you, eyes closed and humming as he faced the sun just like you. “Don’t you have lessons to attend to?” 

What was an attempt to chase the boy away simply rolled off his shoulders with a dismissive shrug. “She thinks I’m in the bathroom.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” 

“And you never answered mine,” he hummed.

You scoffed out a laugh. “You never asked me a question.” 

That made him pause, replaying the conversation back in his mind before a broader smile split across his lips and he looked over to you. 

“It seems I didn’t.” 

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Does that mean you’ll leave me alone? Prince Tiglaar?” 

His brows dipped down in amusement, his smile never ceasing. “Maybe. Only if you answer me one question.” 

Your expression drooped, disappointed yet still willing to entertain him if it meant he left quicker. “And what’s that, Your Royal Highness.” 

“What are you doing out here?” 

Your lips quirked to one side, hesitation lingering as you debated this question of all questions. With a sigh looked away from him, eyes tracing an outline of the clouds before finally, “I wanted to make today special.” 

His eyes jumped over to you, propping himself on an elbow to face you to some capacity as you kept your gaze to the skies. 

“Special? How come?”

Hesitation beat you to the punch, looking away from him. “It’s…it’s my thirteenth birthday. Father’s working so I’m just whiling away time until he’s done.” 

And that’s when you heard it for the first time since Fiyero made his presence: silence. It wasn’t quite the same as before, though. It was more like a pregnant pause, the gears in Fiyero’s brain very audibly churning. 

“It’s your birthday.” 

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” 

More silence as you sat and wondered what could possibly be going on in Fiyero’s head that’s taking up so much time and brain energy. 

Then he finally did something. With a sudden movement, he stood up and dusted his pants off. 

You looked up to him, satisfaction settling in your chest. “Don’t get lost on your way back Prince Fiyero.” 

“I won’t,” he sighed with his smile before reaching out to you with a hand. “Because you’re coming with me.” 

Your brow flinched down as you stared at him and as if he grew an extra one to extend out to you. “I’m sorry, what?” 

“Well I can’t let you spend your birthday alone. C’mon, it’ll be fast.” 

You sat up, your hand hesitantly at your chest. “I don’t…” 

“If you find yourself not having fun you can turn around and walk away and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the day. I promise.” 

You weren’t fond of Prince Fiyero Tiglaar by any means. He was arrogant, loud, disruptive, and a major headache to be around. Yet, something in you pulled the string attached to your hand to connect his touch to yours, agreeing with whatever plan he had under his sleeves. 

“...okay…” 

You realize you’d never fully been inside of the castle that Fiyero resided in. Sure you’ve seen the parts that most of Winkie Country had seen: the entrance, dining hall, and ball room, but you had no clue where Fiyero was taking you. 

The castle was filled with people and Animals that passed the pair of you with no second glance, not paying you any mind as Fiyero dragged you through the hallways until you reached a large door with warm light peeking from underneath it. 

With a smile, he pushed the door open and gestured to you. “After you.” 

A small smile cracked on your lips as you walked in, revealing the largest kitchen you’ve ever seen in your entire life. 

“Wow, this is…wow.” 

He stepped in behind you, watching you softly as you marveled at the room. “I know…I come in here whenever our staff takes their break. It’s peaceful.” 

You looked over to him with a hint of shock dancing across your face. Peace was never a word you associated with the boy, much less something he sought out. 

“C’mere,” he gestured, pulling a large stool up to a table in the center of the room. “Sit, I’ll be right back.” 

You looked at him curiously, but all he did was gesture again, eliciting the smallest of chuckles from you. So you sat and watched as he moved across the room, making an effort to conceal it from you. 

“I didn’t know Prince Tiglaar knew how to cook. I assume your people did it for you.” 

He looked back at you with an amused smile. “You think so lowly of me.” 

A little while passed before he finally turned back to you, presenting a small cake with a single candle in the center. 

“I make it anytime I find myself spending my birthday alone. No one deserves to feel alone on their birthday.” 

You looked from the cake to him, your brows pinching together with disbelieved admiration. 

“Don’t forget to make a wish,” he whispered. 

A warmth spread across your chest, unable to fight the truest smile that’s ever graced your lips. Finally, your eyes fluttered shut and you blew out your candle. 

“Happy Birthday y/n.” 

Perhaps you misjudged the prince. “...thank you Fiyero.” 

8 years later—present day

Fiyero remembers hearing somewhere that distance makes the heart grow fonder and that time heals all wounds, but now all he could do is scoff at the sentiment. 

He watched you from his side of the courtyard, like a phantom from his past. You changed. Or maybe you didn’t. All he knew was that this wasn’t the you he had when you left Winkie Country. 

This was the you he received when he first met you. Maybe even worse—all dressed up with hostility and distaste. 

It made him think. More than he’d like to. 

“Is everything okay darling?” 

He blinked, startled back to reality as he looked down to Galinda. The one he danced with last night. Not the one who scorned him. Not the one who adamantly stated that she wanted nothing to do with him. 

Galinda was easy to be with. No thinking, no wondering. She admired him and it was never a question. 

Yet he still found himself tethered to you. 

“...yes. Everything’s fine.” 

A beat of silence found Galinda as she traced her eyes from him to you, where he was just looking. “She was awfully rude to you yesterday,” she murmured. “I can talk to her for you.” 

Fiyero frowned before immediately correcting it with a laugh and smile. “No, no that’s not necessary. I just–I used to know her, that’s all.” 

Galinda’s brows fell up in surprise. “Oh! You never told me that.” 

Fiyeri plastered a smile on his lips, watching as you walked away. “...nothing to tell. It was a long time ago, I suppose.” 

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But it didn’t take long for you to realize that your Shiz classmates are far more prone to gossip than you could ever imagine. So when they witnessed you blowing off The Prince Fiyero when he clearly wanted your attention, your name was suddenly the most well known name in all of Shiz. 

One of your biggest mistakes though, was underestimating the rate at which rumors spread. It was only lunch when the whole of the cafeteria saw the prince left baffled as you pushed past him. Yet by time you reached your final class, you had heard your name spoken by your peers far more than you’ve ever spoken it. 

Even in your quiet classroom, you faced no escape. Not because of the two that sat behind you, making a terrible job at whispering about you while you sat right in front of them. Rather, you faced no escape because Gemma decided that as your roommate she must give all necessary commentary every moment she could. 

“You won’t believe what I heard in Dr. Dillamond’s class today.” 

You kept writing as the girl leaned into your side, making poor attempts to be discreet. “It’s a history course, so I’m assuming history.” 

She snorted out a laugh, nudging her shoulder into yours. “That’s funny, but no. I heard Galinda talking with Pfannee about you!” 

You paused for a moment, your eyes still training itself on your paper before scribbling on. “Galinda gossiping…that’s new.” 

Your sarcasm, as always, rolled right past the girl like nothing at all. 

“She sounded—.” 

“Miss Thorne this is not social hour,” Miss Coddle exclaimed, startling the girl from your space. “Please turn back to your own work.” 

Gemma however, was persistent. It only took about five minutes until you heard the sound of her chair being drug closer to you.

“She sounded jealous to me,” she just barely whispered, pretending to write on her paper. “Galinda, I mean.” 

You hummed, clearly disinterested. “Did she?” 

“I mean, I don’t blame her. I’d be jealous too, given the pair of you—” 

“Excuse me?” 

Any attempts of ignoring the girl had been foiled as you jerked your head up at the girl, bewilderment in your eyes. “Don’t clump me up with him. There’s nothing between us, so the last thing I want is to be associated with the likes of him.” 

For the first time since the beginning of that class period, Gemma was completely silent, but this time you didn’t like it. She didn’t return to her work and she didn’t look up at the board to follow along in class, rather she just stared at you with a small smile slowly reaching either side of her cheeks. 

“You know…now that I think about it, I heard something from someone else who happened to be there.”

You decided you weren’t going to entertain her anymore. You were just going to return to your work. 

“They had said Fiyero practically looked like a kicked puppy when you shoved him.” 

“I didn’t shove him.” Evidently, you weren’t very good at ignoring the girl. 

This time, she let out a hum of amusement, watching you like a hawk. “There was a saying I heard one time…or maybe read.”

Your eyes flicked over to the girl for just a moment. 

“Something along the lines of love and hate being pretty much the same thing…” 

You had to admit, she was good. Despite nearly never talking to her, Gemma knew exactly how to push your buttons; when you looked up at her, any attempt to finish your classwork out the window, she only met you with a knowing smile. 

“I didn’t strike a nerve…did I?” 

You grit your teeth at her, angry enough that you hadn’t even realized that class was dismissed. “This has nothing to do with you, okay? So for Oz sake drop it.” 

With no intention of waiting on the girl, you gathered your things and slung your bag over your back, but not before leaving her one more statement. 

“And for your information, he’s always looked like a kicked puppy.” 

In a school where you felt like you never fit in with the masses, you found the library to be your sanctuary—as cliche as it sounds. 

It was a place that gave no option but to be silent and in silence you thrived. It was just you and your thoughts and occasionally Elphaba Thropp. 

The two of you didn’t talk much, but sometimes the two of you would enjoy the peace that came with existing in a space communally. 

No words were needed to know that no judgement was passed in the space.

You both simply were, with no fear of a Galinda disciple to harp on the girl’s green skin and no pitying attempt to be your friend because they didn’t understand you simply didn’t need any. 

Night approached slowly and the two of you remained unfazed by it all. Some students came and went, but the two of you remained rooted to your own study spots: far enough that you could forget the other was there but close enough that you could likely chat if either of you desired. 

In fact the first time you moved in what felt like hours was to cross the room to retrieve a book. However, in plucking it up from the shelf, you took notice of a rather shoe print vandalizing the cover. 

“Who–what?” 

Your voice was soft, but echoed, taking Elphaba’s attention away from her work. 

“Is something wrong?” 

You turned around, confusion and bewilderment clear on your face as you held up the book for her to see from where you were standing. “Who is walking on books?” 

As her eyes connected to the large dusted footprint covering the very book you held, her expression drooped from her usual neutral-ness to annoyed recognition. 

“You must’ve somehow avoided the chaosification a certain prince started this morning. Left everyone dancing on books and swinging from ceilings.” 

With a swift gesture, she pointed up at the tie left hanging from a part of the revolving bookshelf. 

Your eyes stayed with it before closing them with a tired sigh, mumbling to yourself. “I can’t seem to escape him, can I?” 

“No it seems you can’t.” 

With wide eyes, the two of you whipped around to see the man in question looming in the entrance of the library. 

Your body tensed up, shoulders squaring in and grip tightening around the book as he strolled closer to the pair of you. “Fiyero.” 

But your hostility was met with his own kind eyes looking at you curiously until he came to stand in front of you. “y/n.” 

A tightness spread in your chest, glaring up at him as all negative feelings bubbled up within you. You don’t know how long the two of you stood just like that but…he was the first to look away. 

Only to look up to Elphaba with a curt nod and charming smile. “Elphaba. I was actually hoping to find the two of you here. You see a number of us are going to Ozdust and—” 

“No.” 

Your voice echoed across the room, but unlike before. Any semblance of the softness in your voice faded as you met him with a firm distaste. 

In a blink he looked back to you, once more taken aback with a startled laugh falling from his lips. “You didn’t even let me ask.” 

“It doesn’t matter. My answer is no, Tiglaar.” 

Poor Elphaba stood uncomfortably from her side of the room, eyes shifting between the pair of you. “I’m sorry…do you two know each other?” 

“Yes.” 

“No.” 

Fiyero looked back at you with wide eyes, more and more confused with every sentence that came from you. “No?” 

Nothing in that answer helped Elphaba, the girl reaching for her things between the small yet uncomfortable pauses. “I shouldn’t get in the middle of whatever…this is.” 

“Can I expect to see you at OzDust? Everyone will be there.” 

Some things never change, especially not Fiyero’s desperate need to include everyone in on his mischief. 

But Elphaba only cracked the smallest of smiles. “You have an interesting sense of humor.” And with a pivot she was gone, leaving only the pair of you alone in the starkly quiet library. 

You still gripped the book with fierce hold, knowing that if you let go, there would be the smallest of tremors beneath your fingertips. 

Just him standing there before you with such confused eyes infuriated you. Acting as if he didn’t hurt you. As if he didn’t abandon you.

You couldn’t help but wonder if it was just a sick game to him: entertain the idea of friendship when it was most convenient to him and leave you high and dry once you got attached, all for his own amusement. He wasn’t that cruel…was he?

“I’ve missed you.” 

You faltered. The anger both on your face and within you flickering back and your grip on the book loosened. 

With gentle hands, he grasped the book. Not taking it from you but holding it with you, your fingers brushing against each other. 

“Have you?” 

The nature of the question, you weren’t really sure. You wished it was a snarky reply, one that would send him into silence so that you could quickly make your exit.

But it betrayed you. It was wrapped in vulnerability, questioning if he truly did miss you. 

“I have. From the moment you left…Please don’t tell me you ever doubted that.” 

Your eyes stung and the tightness in your chest only amplified. “I…” 

One of his hands abandoned the book, coming to touch your cheek and for one short fleeting moment, you leaned into it, wanting nothing more than to melt into his touch and forget all the hurt he ever gave you. 

In that short moment, losing yourself in his eyes and touch, the walls around your heart crumbled away. 

But good moments aren’t meant to last forever. You remembered the last time you felt this way. The last time your heart melted for his tricks and charisma. 

You remembered why the walls were built in the first place. 

You turned away from his touch like it burned you and pushed his hand from you. “You’re unbelievable. Truly.” 

It felt as if needles were pricking your throat as you held back tears. You shoved the book to his chest, letting him fumble for it as you backed away and began for your things. 

“Get this through your head Fiyero. We stopped being friends the second I left Winkie Country so whatever ploy you’re trying to play isn’t working. Leave. Me. Alone.” 

You walked in stride towards the door as he called for you. You only stopped when he grasped your hand, but you didn’t dare look him in the eye. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“...don’t bother trying.” 

Gemma was gone when you arrived at your room, likely off to the OzDust Ballroom. You were thankful for it, for she wouldn’t see the tears streaming down your cheeks. 

You don’t remember the last time you’ve cried this hard, but it hurt more than anything. 

It all felt like a cruel joke played on by the universe, waving all your hurt in your face just to get a rise out of you. 

When you reached your bed, you sank down to your knees and reached for something: a simple shoebox. 

In opening it, you found a myriad of objects, but you reached for one: a letter. 

You don’t know why you kept it. But now, you hold it, reading it to remind yourself why you can’t rush back to him, embrace him and let all your grudges fade away. He hurt you once, you couldn’t let him do it again. 

My dearest, Fiyero

I don’t know what to say anymore. You always told me that you'd never forget me like everyone else did. That I matter too much to you. A part of me still believes that’s true. Or at least wants to believe it is true. 

I can’t help but wonder if it was my fault. I apologize if my words chased you away and the things I admitted ruined the bond we had. I wish nothing more in all of Oz than to take my words back. 

I do not know if I’ll even send this. If I do, I fear it will be just like the rest, forgotten and discarded. 

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Never being in one place for long, admittedly stunted your ability to retain friendships. At some point in your youth, you wondered what was the point of  friends at all if they were all bound to forget you when you moved away. 

You found solace in loneliness— knowing that you were the only one that would never abandon you. But some tried. Wriggling themselves a hole in your heart and becoming your best friend right before your eyes. 

He was a prince that you’d encountered in the years you and your father spent in Winkie Country. Most of all, he was the complete opposite of you: carefree, adventurous, with a kinship for bending the rules until they broke.

The development of the friendship was blurry, the prince going from someone you detested because he disrupted your isolated peace, to being a somewhat tolerable nuisance, to being the only person who knew how to make you laugh. 

Your father always said opposites attract for a reason and he brought out the best in you. 

But he also made you forget. Forget that good things never last forever. Forget why developing feelings for someone when you might be gone the next day was stupid. Forget why you avoid friendships. 

In forgetting, you let your guard down. In letting your guard down…you got hurt. 

That prince was the one grudge you couldn’t quite get over, no matter how many years passed. You were still holding onto the something that you were sure he didn’t remember anymore. 

The world, however, made it very hard for you to forget any of it. The boy always had a way of making himself known, even in his absence—an unfortunate side effect of being a prince. 

You felt it in your bones when you woke up: some sort of disturbance to your peace that tired you before you even took a step out of your bed. 

But what really let you know something was awry was the door to your dorm being swung open and followed with the shrieking of your roommate Gemma and her friend, Clover. 

“I told you he’d be here,” Gemma exclaimed, hands interlocked with the girl who you didn’t appreciate intruding so early. “And you didn’t believe me!” 

“Who cares! He’s here.” 

You tried—and failed—to wipe the sleep from your eyes as you stood from your bed. “I’m sorry…what’s so important that the two of you have to discuss it here at this Oz-forsaken hour?” 

A beat of silence spread across the two as they looked over to you, eyes wide before their voices rang out in unison. “Prince Fiyero is here at Shiz!’ 

You could only describe it as an ice-cold bucket of water being dumped over you. You froze in your tracks, even your blinking and you were now wide awake. 

“I’m sorry…what?” 

Gemma ushered to you, shoving a newspaper with the most obnoxious face into your hands. And there he was: Prince Fiyero Tiglaar of Winkie Country—the one whose face you’d never forget. 

“Ozland’s Homegrown Hunkthrob,” you read out, your nose wrinkling in disgust. “This has to be a joke.” Your voice was low and monotonous as you stared back at the ink and paper that made up his face. 

“By Oz, no! I saw him myself, through a window…by my telescope,” Clover paused. “Well technically his back and his horse but oh my Oz, his back…Emerald Weekly wasn’t lying…” 

You looked up at the girl slowly, failing to hide the expression stained to your face as he drifted off into lost thought. 

“Maybe I’m dreaming,” she sighed, pretending to fall into Gemma’s arms with a hand to her forehead. “I had one just like this once except…” 

“Try a nightmare,” you uttered, abandoning the paper to the ground and bee-lining to your wardrobe. 

But that only elicited a dramatized gasp from the both of them. 

“A nightmare,” Gemma questioned, eyes widened with shock. “That’s a little dramatic, no? It’s Prince Fiyero. Look at him!” 

When you turned around, she held the paper up to you again, the prince’s eyes staring into your soul. Impulsively, you reached for it and crumbled it. 

“I said what I said. Fiyero Tiglaar is nothing more than a selfish arrogant diva who cares only about himself.” 

You were done with Fiyero, but evidently the world thought otherwise. Everywhere you went on campus, you found the trails of him: fainted girls, flustered boys, footprints on surfaces that have never seen a footprint before. 

With every single one of these signs, you pivoted and took another route, knowing that he wouldn’t be too far from where you stood. 

You held your own for quite some time, but your luck could only last for so long. You could always take another path for class, or choose to study if the library wasn’t occupied. But starving wasn’t exactly an option you could pivot on. 

So you relied on hopes and prayers that taking your own table and eating fast was enough.

But it never was. 

The room was quiet enough when you took your seat, kind of peaceful given the time of day. It was almost shocking, easing you to slow down, pace yourself. But that’s when you heard it: a distant chatter that seemed to get louder and louder until everything you dreaded pushed through the doors. 

Fiyero. 

Confidence exuded his very being as he strode into the room, a flock of chittering students and a mystified Galinda hot on his heels. 

It was all so familiar: a crowd always following him, praising him, and him eating it all up as he continued his same routine. 

You wanted nothing more than to be rid of it all, yet your eyes couldn’t tear themselves away. You were only taking him in, the age on him making him differ from the little boy you knew ages ago. 

You watched as he circled a table and declare his seat, opposite ends of the room from you. Galinda hung off his arm and he simply smiled and continued on his preaching—likely on some plan to break a rule or slip away from the campus. 

You couldn’t look away fast enough though. 

His eyes swept across the room and met yours, halting him in his speech. 

It was only seconds and you knew it, but somehow you still felt all the years creep up on you as you found his eyes for the first time in what felt like ever. 

His eyes softened and all the happy memories came to front. The laughter, the mischief, the adventures. The memories triggered a warmth in your chest, spreading softly, making you forget. 

Fiyero always somehow made you forget. 

Then came the rest of the memories. The hurt, the abandonment…the rejection. 

Like a dying war, the warmth in your chest turned into a staggering chill and suddenly you weren’t hungry anymore. 

You moved fast, snatching your bag up and making quick to drop your tray off before ushering out of the dining hall. But you weren’t nearly fast enough for the prince. 

Perhaps some things never change—he always managed to find his way to you, no matter how much you might’ve avoided him. 

He stood before you, blocking your path with a broad smile adorning his cheeks. Your name fell past his lips like an old song attached to rotten memories, like a blade dipped in sugar. 

“I did–I didn’t know you went here…” 

Maybe in some life you would have embraced him and ignored all he did to hurt you. A life where he was easily forgiven and the past was nothing more than a memory. 

But you were the one cursed to remember as the memory of you faded from everyone’s minds. You could not forget, so you cannot forgive. 

“Here I am.” Dry sarcasm rolled off your tongue with ease before pushing past Fiyero and leaving him, for the first time in his life, at a loss of words. 

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a little childhood best friends to enemies to lovers perchance..? This was originally gonna be a one shot or maybe a two-part but idk. Lmk what y'all think and maybe i'll make this a series xoxo

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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.

——————

anthony bridgerton

modern! anthony hcs

a slight lovers quarrel with anthony

doting anthony

modern! anthony texting

anthony procrastinating (s)

sick anthony :(

seducing modern!anthony

late nights in autumn

modern! anthony and his lady

lovemaking (s)

anthony crying after hyacinth leaves

headlock (s)

needy anthony (slight nsfw)

anthony character study

an unexpected return

benedict bridgerton

modern! benedict hcs

mycroft holmes (ys)

a day out

his wife pestering him (s!)

taking advantage of his intelligence

a lapse in propriety

conspiring with james

unravelling mr holmes series⬇️

hustling for the good life, never thought i'd meet you here your ivy grows, and now i'm covered in you so inviting, i almost jump in we learn to live with the pain, mosaic broken hearts wherever you stray, i follow i love you, it's ruining my life wreck my plans, that's my man i want your complications too

a torturous dinner party

migraine with mycroft

finding comfort in his love

period pains

birthday celebrations

a long day (s)

soft!dom mycroft

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.

———————

His room was quiet.

Your body still hummed from the way he’d made love to you like you were something precious. Like the whole world had disappeared the second your mouths met.

His touch hadn’t been hurried, just long, lingering kisses and trembling hands that asked permission with every movement.

You’d never done that before, not with anyone.

But with Henry…it hadn’t been frightening.

It had felt like coming home.

And now, hours later, the golden pink of dusk filtered through the window as Henry held you close to him.

The thick blankets tangled around your bare legs, warm from the heat of his body. One of his arms was slung gently over your waist, the other curled beneath your pillow, anchoring you.

You could still feel him everywhere.

Not just physically, but emotionally, too. His touches had been slow, reverent. His voice, trembling with awe. He had made love to you like you were something he’d never expected to have in his lifetime.

It had been your first time, and he’d known. You’d told him in the quiet before, voice small but certain. And he hadn’t hesitated to make it mean something.

Now, his nose brushed the back of your neck.

“You’re awake,” he whispered.

You nodded slowly, turning over to face him.

Henry gazed at you with soft, sleepy eyes, like you were still a dream he hadn’t quite accepted was real. His hair was wild from your hands, and the faintest flush still colored his cheeks.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

You smiled. “Safe.”

His entire face softened. “Good.”

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “I want to take care of you. Can I?”

“You already have.”

“I mean aftercare. I want to…run you a bath and brush your hair.”

Your chest tightened at his tenderness. “Okay.”

He disappeared from the bed just long enough to prep the bathroom.

You sat at the edge of the mattress, wrapped in one of his flannels, your bare legs curled up beneath you, while you listened to the sound of water running, the subtle clink of bottles being arranged on the tiled edge.

When he returned, he crossed the room barefoot, his expression soft and purposeful.

“I added lavender oil,” he murmured. “And Epsom salts. It’s warm, not too hot.”

You reached for his hand, and he kissed your knuckles before helping you to your feet.

He walked you to the bathroom with an arm around your waist, stopping in front of the tub with a hand on your lower back. The water was steaming gently, petals floating on the surface, some pale purple, others soft yellow. A towel and a soft robe were already laid out on a chair near the wall, along with your brush and what looked like a small bottle of detangler.

“You think of everything,” you whispered.

He looked almost shy. “I just want you to feel safe and cared for.”

Then he knelt.

Your breath caught as he gently unbuttoned the flannel you wore, his fingers slow, his gaze never dropping below your face without your permission.

“Tell me if anything feels uncomfortable,” he murmured.

“It doesn’t,” you said quietly. “I like this. I like you like this.”

He slid the flannel from your shoulders and helped you step out of your panties. Then, holding your hand, he guided you carefully into the water.

You let out a breath the moment you sank beneath the warmth. The heat seeped into your bones, muscles softening with the scent of lavender and the soothing quiet of his bathroom.

Henry knelt beside the tub again and cupped water into his hand.

“I’m going to pour this over your shoulders now,” he said softly. “It’ll help you relax.”

You closed your eyes, and warm water ran in rivulets down your skin.

He repeated the process, rinsing your arms, your collarbone, then dipping a soft cloth into the water and moving to your back.

“I’m going to wash you now, sweetheart,” he said. “Let me know if it’s too much.”

His hands were impossibly gentle, the cloth gliding over your back in slow, loving strokes. He murmured praises between every pass.

“You were so brave tonight.”

“So trusting. I’ll never forget that.”

“You were perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

When he reached your thighs, he paused. “Still okay, baby?”

You nodded, and he resumed, slow circles, and soft passes.

After, he rinsed you again, whispering, “I’ve got you,” every time your eyes drifted closed or you shifted under his touch.

“I’ll help you out now,” he said after the final rinse. “Lean on me, love.”

He wrapped you in the soft robe, holding you against his chest.

He dried your legs and arms gently, carried you bridal-style back to the bedroom, and settled you on the bed with your brush already in hand.

“Hair time?” you asked with a smile.

He grinned, cheeks pink. “Hair time.”

He positioned himself behind you and began spritzing your hair with the detangler. He brushed slowly, methodically.

“This part might tug a little,” he warned. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

You hummed in approval as he ran the brush from root to tip, long strokes that made your scalp tingle and your whole body relax again.

“I used to watch my sister braid her own hair,” he said softly. “She let me try once. I wasn’t great. But maybe…”

“You want to braid mine?”

“If you’ll let me.”

You smiled. “Please.”

He began slowly, fingers weaving the strands with almost comical concentration.

“Left over center,” he mumbled. “Right over center…is this too tight?”

“No,” you murmured. “It’s perfect.”

When he finished the braid, it was slightly lopsided, but so full of love that you nearly teared up.

He kissed your shoulder and murmured, “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your heart squeezed. “You’re going to make me cry.”

He shifted beside you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I’m so honored,” he whispered. “You gave me something that no one else has ever had. Not just your body, but your trust. Your heart. I’m never going to stop earning that.”

You let your head fall against his chest, and he pulled the blanket over you both, wrapping his arms around you once more.

“I love you,” he whispered. “And I’m yours. For as long as you’ll have me.”

“I love you too, Henry.”

You held him tighter, kissed his chest, and closed your eyes, safe in the warm cocoon of his arms.

You woke slowly.

Warmth clung to your skin thicker than the down comforter pulled up to your collarbone. The first thing you felt was the way your body didn’t ache, but you remembered that soft, sweet fullness that came from being held and loved and made into something treasured.

The second thing you noticed was that Henry wasn’t in bed.

His side was still warm, the imprint of his body left behind in the sheets. The faintest scent of lavender and something richer...earthy and clean and him, still lingered in the pillow beside you.

You smiled into it.

A soft sound drifted from down the hall, the quiet clink of ceramic, a low hum of a voice.

He was singing.

You pushed back the covers, the motion slow, lazy. You were still wrapped in his robe, the fabric soft and too big, falling just past your knees. The braid he’d tried to do still hung over your shoulder, a little crooked but still sweet. You reached up and touched it gently, lips curling at the thought of his careful fingers, his furrowed brow, the way he’d whispered “there,” like it was a spell.

Barefoot and drowsy, you padded down the hall.

The kitchen was filled with morning light, amber and gold pouring through the windows, dust motes catching the sun like glitter suspended in honey.

And there he was.

Henry stood at the stove, hair a little messy, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was barefoot too, wearing a worn t-shirt and loose pajama pants that hung low on his hips. He was humming under his breath, flipping something in a pan, and flour was on his nose. Like he’d forgotten it was there.

You leaned against the doorway and just watched him for a second. Your chest ached from the softness of it all.

He turned, eyes landing on you with a stunned expression like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. A smile tugged at his mouth instantly.

“Hi,” he said, voice still rough with sleep.

“Hi,” you whispered back.

“You sleep okay?”

You nodded, voice catching. “More than okay.”

He wiped his hands on a towel and walked over slowly, warm palms finding your waist like they’d been waiting for you all night.

“Still in my robe,” he murmured, eyes flicking down. “You look beautiful.”

You ducked your head, but he tipped your chin up gently.

“I mean it,” he whispered. “You take my breath away.”

His lips pressed to your forehead, then your cheek, then, softly, to your lips. The kiss was slow, like he had all the time in the world.

“I’m making pancakes,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I might’ve gone a little overboard.”

“Is that why there’s flour on your nose?”

He blinked. “What?”

You reached up and gently swiped it away. “There.”

His laugh was low and shy, and he leaned into your palm.

“I think I’m still a little drunk on you,” he admitted.

You reached up and tangled your arms around his neck, pulling him down into another kiss. This one lingered, deeper, but still soft, still warm.

“Good,” you whispered against his lips. “Because I’m not done being spoiled.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” His arms tightened around you. “I plan on spoiling you every day.”

He fed you first, insisted on plating your pancakes just how you liked them, even if he had to ask five times about the syrup-to-butter ratio. He sat beside you at the little breakfast bar, knee bumping yours beneath the table.

At one point, you caught him staring.

“What?” you asked through a bite of pancake.

His voice was low, sweet.

“I just…I didn’t know love could feel like this.”

You reached for his hand.

“Me either.”

And in the quiet morning light of his kitchen, with his braid still in your hair, and his robe wrapped around your body, you knew one thing for certain:

You were exactly where you belonged.

You sat cross-legged on the couch in Henry’s room, your fingers curled around a warm cup of tea. The low glow of the bedside lamp bathed the room in golden light, casting gentle shadows against the pale pages of the open field journal on the table.

He’d been explaining something about fossil layering, his voice low, calm, and soothing, but your attention had drifted. Not because it wasn’t interesting, but because of him. Because of the way his voice sent a quiet shiver down your spine. Because of the way he looked at you from across the room like you were something fragile and precious.

Because you were his.

Dating Henry was unlike anything you’d experienced. He was older, yes. More reserved. Careful in the way he touched you, the way he spoke your name. Like you were something he’d spent a lifetime looking for and still couldn’t believe was real.

You’d kissed many times. Long, slow, drawn-out kisses that left you breathless and trembling, especially when his hand cradled the back of your neck or slipped around your waist to pull you close.

But you hadn’t gone further than that.

Not yet.

You weren’t ashamed of your inexperience. Not with him. You’d just never felt ready...until tonight. Until now, with the warmth of his gaze lingering on your face and the quiet hum of comfort pulsing between your hearts.

You set your tea down and glanced at him, your voice soft. “Henry?”

He looked up from his notes instantly. “Yes, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, nervous. “Can I… ask you something?”

He closed the journal gently, his entire attention on you now. “Always.”

You hesitated, fingers tugging at the hem of your shirt. “I’ve been thinking about… us. And I think I want to… tonight. If you do.”

Something in his face shifted. Not shock. Not urgency. Just a softness that spread from his eyes to the edges of his mouth, like warmth slowly blooming beneath the surface.

He stood slowly, walking over to you, crouching beside the couch so you were face to face.

“You’re sure?” he asked gently, his voice just above a whisper. “I need you to be absolutely sure, baby.”

“I am,” you said quietly. “I just… I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve only kissed.”

Henry’s eyes closed for a breath, and when they opened, there was nothing but reverence there. No frustration, no pressure, just him...steady and safe.

“I know,” he murmured, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “We'll go slow. You tell me everything you're feeling, and if you need to stop, even for a second, you just say so. I’ll take care of you.”

Your heart fluttered as you nodded.

He leaned in, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “Come with me.”

You followed him to the bed, nerves fluttering in your chest. He sat with you on the edge, legs touching, one hand stroking your thigh in slow, soothing circles through the fabric of your leggings.

“We’ll start with what you already know,” he whispered, cupping your cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

You nodded and leaned in, lips parting as his mouth met yours, soft and warm, his thumb stroking your jaw as he deepened it just a little. He kissed you like you had all night, like there was no rush.

When your breath caught, he pulled back just enough to see your face. “Still okay?”

You nodded.

“Good girl,” he said quietly, making you shiver. “Now lie back for me.”

You did, heart pounding, watching as he stretched out beside you, one arm wrapped beneath your shoulders as his lips brushed your neck, then lower, trailing soft, slow kisses just above your collarbone.

“I’m going to touch under your shirt,” he murmured against your skin. “You’ll feel my hand on your stomach first, just to get used to me, alright?”

“Okay,” you whispered.

His hand slid beneath the hem, warm and steady, spreading slowly over your bare skin. He stayed there, his palm flat against your belly, not moving until you relaxed under him.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “Breathe, baby. Just like that.”

You whimpered when his hand moved higher, brushing over the base of your ribs, then slowly, carefully higher. He stopped again just below your bra, his voice a whisper against your jaw.

“I want to take this off, but only if you say yes.”

You nodded. “Yes.”

He eased the fabric over your head, tossing it aside, his eyes drinking you in like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “Perfect,” he whispered.

His fingers traced along the edge of your bra. “May I?”

Your breath shook. “Yes.”

He unclasped it gently, peeling it away, and let his hands ghost over your chest. He didn't grope, didn’t rush, just stroked the curves with quiet reverence, watching every flicker of your expression as he kissed you again, deeper now.

“I’m going to keep touching you,” he said softly between kisses, “but tell me if it’s too much.”

You gasped when his hand slid down over your waistband.

“Shh,” he soothed. “Just my hand, baby. I want to feel you.”

He slipped beneath the fabric, his fingers gliding slowly over your lower belly, then lower, until he cupped you through your panties. Your hips jerked slightly, and he held you steady.

“You’re already so warm for me,” he murmured. “You feel that?”

You whimpered, your hands clinging to his arms.

“I’m going to rub you through the fabric first,” he said, his lips brushing your ear. “Let your body get used to the feeling. You’re in control, baby. All you have to do is feel.”

He moved slowly, deliberately, his fingers circling gently as you gasped against his shoulder.

You weren’t sure when you’d started shaking, only that his voice never stopped. Always guiding, always comforting.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “You’re beautiful.”

His fingers moved in slow, steady circles through the thin fabric of your panties, and you clung to his shoulders, trembling with each tiny shift of sensation. It wasn’t overwhelming, not with the way he was watching you, speaking so low and gently in your ear.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he murmured, his voice like velvet. “Every little sound you make… you don’t have to hide any of it. I want to hear you.”

You whimpered softly, burying your face in his neck as the pressure built...new, unfamiliar, but not frightening. Not with him. You felt safe in his arms, even as your body responded in ways you’d never felt before.

“I want to take these off,” he whispered, fingers curling under the waistband of your leggings. “I’ll go slow. You tell me to stop if anything feels too much, alright?”

You nodded, unable to speak. He kissed your temple and sat up just enough to guide your leggings and panties down your hips, moving inch by inch, eyes never leaving your face.

“So beautiful,” he breathed, reverent and awed, like he was seeing something sacred. “You don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

You felt exposed and soft beneath his gaze, but not in a bad way. It was like he saw all of you, and wanted you more because of it.

Henry settled between your legs, his hands resting gently on your thighs. “I’m going to touch you here,” he said softly, his fingers brushing the slick heat between your legs. “Just with my hand. I want to feel how your body responds.”

You gasped at the contact, hips twitching as his fingers dipped down to your entrance, learning you. He moved carefully, easing two fingers up to your clit and pressing in slow, delicate circles, each motion sending warmth curling through your belly.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Breathe for me, baby. Let me make you feel good.”

You didn’t realize tears had pricked at your lashes until he leaned forward and kissed your cheek, so gently it almost broke you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re not alone in this. I’m right here.”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt as your body arched into his hand, each touch sending your nerves alight. His other arm slid beneath you, holding you close, grounding you.

“I want to make love to you,” he said after a moment, his voice deeper now, roughened by restraint. “But only if you’re ready. You don’t need to do anything, sweetheart. Just tell me what you want.”

You looked up at him, your voice small but sure. “I want you, Henry. I want this...with you.”

He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then hovered just above your lips.

“Then I’ll take care of you,” he whispered. “Every step.”

He sat up only long enough to undress slowly, letting you see him, never rushing. His body was strong, defined by years of fieldwork, but it was the way he looked at you that undid you completely.

He returned to you, settling between your thighs again, and kissed you deeply, his bare skin warm and solid against yours. He took his time, letting your body adjust to the sensation of his weight, his heat.

“You’ll feel a stretch at first,” he murmured against your mouth. “It might be strange, but it shouldn’t hurt too badly. I’ll go slow. You tell me if I need to stop. You promise?”

“I promise,” you whispered, trembling under his touch.

You felt the pressure before anything else, the slow, careful push of the head of his cock as he slowly pushed forward.

“That’s it,” he said gently. “Nice and slow, just like this.”

You gasped, clinging to him as he eased inside by small degrees, always stopping to check your face, always kissing your cheeks, your jaw, whispering sweet, grounding words.

“You’re taking me so well,” he groaned softly, as if holding himself back was its own kind of pain. “You feel incredible.”

It was a strange feeling, full and overwhelming, but the pain wasn't as terrible as you'd imagined. Just the heat of him, the slow stretch, the way his body fit against yours like you were made for this.

He bottomed out with a quiet groan, holding still, letting you adjust.

“Still okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded, tears in your eyes again. “I just… I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

His expression broke. He leaned in and kissed your cheek. “That’s because it’s never just about the body. It’s about you. About how much I love you. I’ve wanted to make you feel safe like this from the beginning.”

Then he moved, slow, careful thrusts that made your whole body sing with sensation, his hips rocking against yours in a rhythm that built gradually, never rushing. His voice stayed in your ear the whole time.

“You’re perfect like this… God, you’re so soft around me… look at how you take me…”

You couldn’t stop the quiet moans escaping your lips, the gasps and whimpers as pleasure bloomed deep in your belly.

He slid a hand down between your bodies again, finding your clit, rubbing slow circles in time with his hips.

“That’s it, baby. Come for me,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And when it hit you cried out, burying your face in his neck as your whole body trembled.

Henry held you through it, his rhythm faltering as he spilled inside you with a quiet groan of your name, kissing your shoulder, your chest, your lips.

You stayed tangled together afterward, still catching your breath, your face tucked under his chin.

He stroked your hair as your heartbeat slowed, voice gentle. “You were incredible. So brave. So beautiful.”

You nuzzled closer, your voice barely a whisper. “Thank you for being so patient.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you. “You don't have to thank me, baby. I would’ve waited forever for this moment.”