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It was not sushi, which at least could be prepared fresh in front of the guests, and was from a company that had been present at Prudence’s wedding before, and they trusted it.

No.

It was an entire shellfish bar, because Mama had seen one at Cressida Cowper’s wedding and declared it absolutely magnificent. She had not thought of it in time for Prudence’s wedding, nor Philippa’s.

Penelope, as the last unmarried daughter, was therefore the last opportunity.

When Penelope had pointed out that nothing prevented Mama from divorcing Papa instead of merely living in a separate house, marrying someone else entirely, and planning another wedding to her exact specifications, Mama had responded by pretending she hadn’t heard a word.

Which was, admittedly, an answer in itself.

So, weeks before her own wedding, Penelope found herself attending a private tasting.

Oysters with mignonette, fresh mussels, scallop ceviche, clams, prawns…

Far too many uncooked creatures from the sea.

Alone, of course, because she would never ask Alfred to sit politely while people discussed the optimal way to eat small animals harvested for consumption and killed seconds before being eaten. It was enough that he had agreed to a shellfish bar at all, positioned as far from his line of sight as the garden would physically allow.

If she recalled right, he said something to the lines of ‘somewhere beyond the curvature of the Earth’.

People treated it as a joke.

It was not.

But she had the tasting.

And four hours after arriving home, Penelope woke up with the overwhelming certainty that every organ in her body had simultaneously decided that it would leave it through her mouth.

She barely made it to the bathroom before proving herself correct.

By the third trip, Alfred was awake and went off to prepare her tea.

By the fourth, he was sitting on the bathroom floor beside her, one hand holding her hair away from her face while the other was ordering what appeared to be the entire contents of a twenty-four-hour pharmacy.

He had also called his private physician.

Who, rather fairly, had been asleep.

The poor man answered two hours later, listened patiently while Alfred recited every symptom she was having, and immediately confirmed that Alfred was right and she should be seen by a doctor, and Penelope was wrong and could not just ride it out on her own.

Her fiancé looked very vindicated, yes.

Penelope just tried not to throw up out of her bucket while he drove them.

The emergency department confirmed the diagnosis later that morning. Vibrio, a bacteria.

When Penelope explained about the shellfish bar, gave the attending physician the company’s name, and mentioned she had been there for a private wedding tasting, he paused halfway through writing his notes and declared he would leave her cannula in.

Because the last patients they had from the caterer stayed there for forty-eight hours.

And he was right.

Penelope was there for seventy-two hours, actually.

That morning was the last time she was able to bend her arm for the next two and a half days.

The antibiotics were aggressive; she spent more than half her day there stuck with fluids, and they got so much blood drawn out of her, she was surprised the last time they did it her blood wasn’t just red saline.

Alfred, for his part, never once reminded her that he had been opposed to the shellfish bar from the beginning.

He never complained about effectively moving into the little flat attached to her hospital suite, nor that the kitchenette was barely the size of a university residence, nor that his work had been reduced to the tiny dining table by the window.

Their coffee machine arrived from home before breakfast on the second morning, accompanied by their favourite mugs, teas, and, somehow, the biscuits Penelope liked with her afternoon tea.

An Environmental Health officer visited them that same afternoon to confirm that, yes, the shellfish company had continued serving raw shellfish despite an ongoing Vibrio outbreak affecting part of its supply. They were already investigating the caterer and working to contain the outbreak.

Eloise visited every day.

To her credit, she tried remarkably hard not to tease Penelope about Alfred hovering over her with all the restrained vigilance of a particularly anxious mother, checking every nurse's instructions twice, insisting she drink water between IV bags, and looking ready to negotiate personally with anyone who suggested she might not need another blanket.

She was considerably less successful at ignoring the fact that they both began to look as though neither had properly washed their hair in days, but shut up when Penelope pointed at the IV in her arm.

Penelope decided to leave aside how Alfred had stepped in to help her shower. Not because she was incapable of doing so herself, but because the cannula in her arm kind of fo made her afraid of accidentally bending her arm, breaking something she shouldn’t, and ending up with a needle travelling through her bloodstream.

Alfred found her in the bathroom with her shirt over her head after fifteen minutes of panic.

Honestly… that more than anything convinced her he truly wanted to marry her.

There were very few people in the world Penelope would willingly shower and bathe.

Alfred.

Eloise.

Her future children.

And that was it, yeah. Mama and Papa would receive the finest nurses money could buy when they started needing that.

Penelope loved them dearly, and she remembered how she learned washing from nannies. So she would return the favour.

She was finally discharged on the evening of the third day with a week's worth of antibiotics, probiotics, enough rehydration salts to survive a minor apocalypse, and an appointment with her GP the following week for repeat blood tests to make sure her kidneys had escaped the ordeal unscathed.

She also left with a rather extensive list of symptoms that meant she would have to return that Alfred immediately made three photocopies of.

One went on the refrigerator, one on the bathroom mirror, and one on her vanity.

She suspected one was in his phone, too.

Penelope considered removing the last one. Then she remembered Alfred would almost certainly notice within the hour and replace it.

. . .

(A skip to give you a peek of...)

31st of July 2026

“And you finished your entire bottle of Pedialyte?” She gave him a look. “I did.” He just raised his eyebrows back at her. “The whole bottle?” “Yes, Alfred.” “And breakfast?” Penelope’s lips twisted in a half scowl. “I only just got up and brushed my teeth,” she reminded him. “You have been in the kitchen the entire time.” He chuckled, shaking his head, and closed the distance between them, leaning in and pressing a kiss to her lips. “You know what?” “Hm?” Penelope hummed. He gave her another little kiss. “I made spinach.” And one more. “And I got the eggs…” Another kiss. “The good ones.” Naturally. The little sanctuary he’d supported for years rescued hens from commercial farms, let them live out their lives in peace, and sold the eggs they happened to lay to help fund the birds’ care. Alfred refused to buy eggs anywhere else. “So,” he hummed against her lips. “I’ll make you scrambled eggs, and we’ll have breakfast together while we wait for Philip.” Penelope smiled, rubbing her nose against his. “Lovely.” He gave her another little kiss. “Go sit down,” he told her. “You can make the toast.”

. . .

“The Day” is a three-part Modern Pebling story written for the “2026 Rare Pair Week — Everybody Loves Penelope” challenge.

You can read all three chapters now on my Patreon and have early access to my currently Pebling works, Convergência and Delight. It's just $2 a month and I promise you won't regret it.

. . .

She sighed, dipping her quill into the ink, smoothing the paper beneath her fingers as she refocused on her letter.

Zio Alessandro wouldn’t be attending the wedding. The journey from Genova to London would take three, even four weeks, and by the time he arrived, it would already be time to leave again. It wasn’t practical, and she understood that.

It would only be Mama’s side of the family in attendance.

Still, she was certain the decision pained him.

Carissimo zio Alessandro We’ve at last decided on the day Rosetta and Mr Samuel Winchester will be married. They’ve applied for a special license with the church so it will happen here at Pembroke House. Rosetta is elated, you should see. She’s floating around, enjoying every single detail of it all. Her dress will be beautiful, and her veil is being carefully crafted — so long it will brush against her feet and trail behind her for several more. They’ll all see what we’ve been holding back these past months, pretending to be nobodies. The house is already abuzz with preparations. Nonna is overseeing everything alongside me. Though truthfully, she knows far more about weddings than I ever will. She never misses a chance to remind me she orchestrated Mama and Papa’s wedding as well. And speaking of Nonna and weddings and Mama and Papa… This might sound strange — perhaps it is — but I believe you’re the only person who might understand this feeling. I don’t think I could ever say it aloud to anyone else. I wonder, Zio… is this how you felt when Papa married Mama and began his own family? It’s not quite abandonment that I feel, but... A quiet shift. The future has changed shape, and I no longer know where I belong within it. I have spent so long caring for Rosetta. Now, what is my duty? I don’t mean to sound selfish. I’m overjoyed for her, truly. Samuel is kind and gentle, and he adores her in the way every woman dreams of being adored. She will be safe with him, and happy. That is all I’ve ever wanted. But I would be lying if I said there isn’t a strange sort of emptiness settling in me. For so long, it was just the two of us. My purpose was clear, constant. Now I find myself waking in the morning and wondering what comes next. What is left for me when Rosetta no longer needs me? Perhaps it is a passing feeling. Or perhaps it is simply change, and I’ve never liked change. But I wanted to tell you because I think you’ll understand. You, too, were the one who stayed. The one who watched your brother go off and begin a life of his own while you held the weight of what was left behind. And yet, you never let that make you bitter.

Ravenna raised her head as a sharp noise broke the quiet, a door slamming somewhere down the corridor. She set her quill aside, smoothing the half-written letter before tucking it into the drawer of her writing desk, standing up, confused, and stepped into the hallway.

What was this?

From the stairwell came footsteps and Nonna, running up the stairs in haste, her eyes wide. Without pausing, she rushed past Ravenna and stopped before Rosetta’s door, knocking with urgency.

Nonna ascended the stairs in haste, her eyes wide when she glanced at Ravenna and rushed past her, stopping before Rosetta’s door and knocking with urgency.

“Rosetta?” she called. “Rosetta? Darling, open the door.”

“What is happening?”

“Rosetta,” came Mr Winchester’s voice from downstairs, strained and worried.

Ravenna stiffened, closing the door and rushing down to where he was, not caring that she hadn’t prepared to see any visitors.

She should have known better than to just trust Samuel – than to trust a Winchester.

“What have you done?” Ravenna hissed, each word laced with fury.

Samuel looked up, his eyes wide, wounded like a kicked dog caught in a storm or a fish out of water. He looked completely lost.

“What have you done?!” she cried again, louder this time, her voice breaking as she stomped her foot against the floor, the sound echoing through the marble hall.

Samuel flinched.

“Nothing!” he shot back, his voice cracking. “I’ve done nothing, I swear!”

A thump echoed from upstairs — hurried stomping, a choked cry.

“It’s not fair!” Rosetta’s voice rang out, raw and breaking.

Ravenna spun back toward Samuel, fury tightening every muscle in her body. The fire in her chest grew. She was ready to tear him apart.

“It was Dean!” Samuel blurted before she could demand another word.

She froze.

Samuel swallowed hard, his eyes pleading for her to just listen.

“He… he refuses to give us my mother’s ring,” he said, the words tumbling from his mouth. “He said he won’t.”

Ravenna blinked.

“What?” she breathed.

The word barely rose above a whisper, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and pain.

Samuel nodded, guilt flashing across his features.

“He said it’s his to do with as he wishes,” he looked away. “And he doesn’t want to give it to me. He’s the eldest. It’s his right.”

Ravenna frowned.

“No, you said it yourself,” she spoke slowly. “The ring was meant for the first brother to marry.”

Both Samuel and Rosetta had both said it about the ring, just after the engagement. There had been no question about it.

Samuel stiffened, tightening his jaw.

“Well,” he muttered. “He seems to have changed his mind.”

Ravenna stood frozen, her eyes locked on him, unable to summon a single word.

This was what Lord Winchester did?

This was his grand retaliation?

Because she’d turned his letter away, because she hadn’t come running to him? He punished them? Rosetta and Samuel, two people who had nothing to do with it?

The cruelty of it stole her breath. How petty, how low, to stoop so far just to prove a point.

“I’m sorry,” Samuel said, his voice firm with conviction. “I would do anything to bring her that ring, I swear it. I love Rosetta. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do. And I tried.”

Ravenna took a deep breath, shaking her head as she fought to steady herself.

“I know,” she said softly.

She lifted a hand to the bridge of her nose, pressing her fingers there as though to ease the pressure building behind her eyes and took another sharp breath.

“Fine,” she exhaled, straightening and facing him fully now. “Your brother will have his letter.”

She turned toward the stairs.

“Wait here.”

Ravenna’s steps were loud as she climbed the stairs. Her hands were itching as she moved, as if lighting was running under them, curling under her skin like all her outrage manifested at once.

Her letter to Zio Alessandro still lay tucked safely in the drawer. She ignored it, drawing out a fresh sheet of her finest stationery — not just any paper, but her paper, the one marked with the Matarazzo name and crest — and dipped her quill into the ink, only trembling a little as she began it.

Lord Winchester, If you wished for a reaction, you have it. If you wanted to hurt me, to remind me of what power you still hold, Congratulations. You’ve done both. You have punished your brother and my sister for a decision that had nothing to do with either of them. You have weaponised a memory of your mother, and something that was promised, simply to prove a point I cannot even begin to understand. That is beneath you, I hope. Though I am beginning to wonder. Is this an attempt to prove me the cruel one? For refusing to accept whatever you wrote after publicly humiliating me? Is that the reason you punish your own family, your own flesh and blood? Because you cannot face the consequences of your own horrible actions? Samuel has done nothing but try to make Rosetta happy. And Rosetta, my sweet sister, has never once asked for more than she deserved. She has never spoken ill of you. She has defended you, even when you didn’t deserve it. You are angry with me. I understand that now. But let your anger fall where it belongs. Not on them. So here I am. I am writing to you, as you seem to want. I don’t know what it is you want from me, Lord Winchester. I don’t know if it’s closure or conflict, forgiveness or war. Write to me, then. I am waiting. — Signora Ravenna Matarazzo.

She let the ink dry only a moment before reaching for her seal — the Matarazzo seal — folding the letter. She melted the wax, and pressed the emblem down with the firmest grip she’d ever had. Then, without pause, she strode from her room and marched back down the stairs.

“Go ahead,” Ravenna said, handing Samuel the letter. “Give it to your brother.”

He took it with a bow of his head, his cheeks flushed pink for some reason, and she watched him slip out the front door before turning sharply on her heel and rushing upstairs.

“Rosetta?” she called softly, knocking at the door.

The sound of sobs answered her — muffled but unmistakable — and Ravenna’s chest ached at the sound.

Oh, her poor little sister.

She waited, hand hovering near the doorknob until it cracked open just enough for Nonna to slip out. The door was gently closed behind her, blocking Ravenna’s view.

Nonna’s eyes were warm, her voice quieter still.

“She doesn’t want to talk,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Ravenna’s brow creased.

“Does she… blame me?” she asked, stunned.

Nonna hesitated — just for a breath — but lowered her eyes, and it was enough.

Ravenna drew in a sharp gasp.

She blamed her?

She blamed Ravenna?

For something she hadn’t caused? For Lord Winchester’s cruelty!

“She... she can’t,” Ravenna whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief.

“Give her a moment,” Nonna said gently, reaching for Ravenna’s arm. “It’s a stressful day. Her heart is full, and her hopes were high. Let her feel what she feels.”

But Ravenna stared at the door. What?!

“He is punishing us!” she protested. “And she turns against me?!”

Her own sister!

“She’s not punishing you,” Nonna interrupted gently. “She’s simply hurt. And… if you only spoke with Lord Winchester —”

If she spoke with him?!

Ravenna pulled her arm away from her.

“I will not be blamed for a man’s cruel decision,” she snapped. “What is she thinking?!”

Nonna’s expression remained steady, though a flicker of weariness passed behind her eyes.

“She doesn’t blame you in her heart,” she said calmly. “But hearts aren’t always reasonable when they’ve been bruised. Especially the tender ones.”

Ravenna scoffed, her voice rising.

“She would rather be angry with me than with him? After everything?”

“She’s not thinking of blame,” Nonna insisted gently. “She’s thinking of the ring. Of the moment she thought would be hers. Of being made to feel small again. And when people feel small, they strike out at what’s near.”

Ravenna shook her head, crossing her arms.

“I’ve protected her all her life,” she said bitterly. “And now I am the villain? Because he — he — cannot stand that I’ll not let him fool me again?”

Nonna gave her a look — soft, knowing — but said nothing.

Ravenna turned to face her, breath uneven.

“Don’t tell me you blame me too.”

Her grandmother exhaled slowly, then leaned in to press a wordless kiss to her temple. She said nothing more, only stepped away and disappeared down the corridor.

Ravenna was left standing alone, lips parted, chest rising in short, shallow bursts. She looked back at the door, willing it to open. Willing her sister to take it all back.

But the door stayed closed. And her sister stayed silent.

She walked back to her room. Drew opened the curtains. Sat at the window, her hands twisting in her lap.

Waiting.

Waiting for Lord Winchester’s letter.

He had her attention now.

Whatever he’d meant to do — he’d done it.

She sat still for a long while, motionless at the window, her eyes fixed on the street below — watching carriages pass, people stroll, horses trot by. Waiting for anything.

The Winchester carriage. A servant. A single rider.

Anything.

And then, it rolled in again.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she was already moving — rushing from the window, flying down the stairs, heart thundering against her ribs.

Just as she reached the bottom of the stairs, the butler opened the door.

Samuel stepped in, looking up at her with eyes full of quiet pain. He said nothing at first — only held something out to her.

Her letter.

Unopened.

The wax seal still unbroken.

Ravenna’s heart twisted in her chest. Her hand trembled slightly as she took it.

Samuel swallowed hard, clearly uneasy. His brows were tight together as he reached into his coat pocket.

“He didn’t open it,” he told her softly. “But… he wrote back.”

He handed her a second envelope.

She snatched it with trembling fingers, eyes scanning his face once more before she broke the seal and unfolded the small sheet in a single motion.

Miss Matarazzo If you wish to speak with me, you’ll find I’m not difficult to locate. I don’t open letters from people who refuse to even open my own. You know where to find me. — D.

. . .

Next Chapter: Chapter 55 (Dean XIII): At last, Ravenna comes to Dean, and he has his chance to apologise. (28th of July on Tumblr/AO3)

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You caught yourself smiling again, even as you tried to keep your face neutral.

Well, too late. Thor’s eyes moved to you, and the corners of his mouth pulled up just a little more.

Dustin picked the pink sharpie first.

“For the D,” he announced, carefully leaning over the cast and beginning his work.

Thor held still, letting your son take his time, watching him.

“You’re doing great,” he said softly as that wobbly big letter started forming.

You watched from your seat, quietly with your stomach doing all the flips in the world, and the colours went on. Pink for D, black for U, green for S, blue for T, purple for I, and red for N.

The S was done backwards, of course it was, but it only added to the charm.

“D-U-S-T-I-N,” your little boy spelt out proudly. “Dustin.”

“Dustin,” Thor echoed softly.

It was the biggest name on the cast, front and centre, and Dustin looked absolutely thrilled as he prepared to decorate every other inch of it with his coloured pens.

That was why it surprised you when he gasped right before putting the first shiny orange tip on the cast.

“Oh, no!”

You blinked.

“What is it, baby?”

“Mama!” he exclaimed, turning to you like it was a crisis. “You must sign it too! Before Mr Thor runs out of space!”

You laughed softly at his urgency, shaking your head.

“Oh, it’s fine,” you assured him. “I’ll do it when you’re done.”

But Dustin was already shaking his head, wide-eyed and insistent.

“No,” he said, very serious now. “You must do it. Right now.”

He looked to Thor for backup, and Thor, of course, only smiled at you, showing you his arm.

“He’s absolutely right,” he said, lifting his arm slightly. “I might run out of space soon.”

You gave him a look, trying not to scowl, but Dustin was already rushing over, holding out the six markers for you to pick one. You sighed, relenting, and plucked the purple one from his little hand.

Thor stood the moment you approached, adjusting his arm to angle the inside toward you — where a blank white patch waited just beneath Loki’s signature and a crude little drawing of several knives.

“I told you I’d been saving space,” he said softly.

You glanced up — and found his eyes already on you, watching too closely, too openly. It made your whole skin heat and your cheeks burn.

You looked away, eyes on the cast, fingers steady as tried to write your name with the dark purple ink quickly but at least nicely.

The moment you were done, you stepped back from him like he was an open flame, and your heart was beating way too fast as you cleared your throat and forced a smile to Dustin.

“Alright,” you said, too breathless. “Go ahead and add your doodles.”

Thor was still looking at you — too long and way too intently — but he finally dropped his eyes and lowered himself to the floor again, carefully kneeling so Dustin could reach his arm.

Your son didn’t even notice anything that was happening. He picked up his shiny orange pen and started doodling happily around the letters of his name, and Thor held completely still, patient, quiet, until your boy was satisfied and tugged him by his hand so he could show you his work.

“Oh, look at that,” you leaned in, pretending to study it like a true art critic. “I really do have a little artist on my hands, Thor.”

“I know,” Thor agreed with a grin. “I’ll have to ask the doctor if I can keep this cast when it comes off. We can’t throw away a masterpiece like this.”

But Dustin frowned his nose.

“Casts get stinky,” he declared. “My uncle JJ had one, and it smelled really bad when they took it off.”

Thor laughed, eyes crinkling as he glanced down at Dustin.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he said, amused. “They do get pretty gross.”

Dustin nodded, very serious.

“It’s because you can’t wash your skin,” he explained. “You gotta have good hygiene.”

You snorted, biting back a laugh.

“That’s right,” you agreed. “You still sure you want to keep it, Thor?”

He glanced at his arm, then back at you two, smiling.

“Maybe I’ll just take some good pictures of it,” he decided. “Before it starts smelling like a garbage truck.”

Dustin seemed satisfied with that answer.

“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t want you to get stinky.”

Thor’s eyes widened dramatically.

“Oh no,” he gasped. “I better stay far away from you after a workout, then. You’d be so disappointed.”

Dustin giggled and you just shook your head fondly at them both.

Of course, before you could call him inside to end the interaction, you heard the sound of the door opening inside the house.

“Aunt Juju is home!” Dustin exclaimed. “Come, Mr Thor! We must show her what we did!”

Thor glanced at you, checking quietly if that was allowed. You gave him a helpless smile.

“Go on,” you sighed. “Might as well show off before dinner.”

Dustin grabbed his good hand and tugged him eagerly toward the house, all proud, and Thor followed with ease, only glancing over his shoulder to flash you one last, dangerously beautiful smile.

You stayed behind on the porch a moment longer, because God help you, you needed a breath. That man was going to be serious trouble for you.

By the time you stepped inside, you found your boy proudly presenting Thor’s newly-decorated cast and Julia threw you a very knowing look the moment she realised you were inside.

“That is beautiful,” she affirmed. “I really need to get you more pens, you make such beautiful art with this!”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe to watch them.

“Actually, you know what?” your sister spoke up. “Let’s go check your supply, so I know what to buy next time.”

Dustin gasped.

“Yes! Of course!” he agreed eagerly, then turned to Thor, eyes wide. “Can you wait for me, Mr Thor?”

Thor just smiled, warm.

“Of course. I don’t have much else to do with my night.”

Julia met your eyes as she passed you, her grin practically glowing as your son trotted behind her, always ready with the chance to inventory anything.

The living room fell into quiet as you and Thor were left alone, and turned to you with a gentle smile.

“He’s precious,” he said softly.

“Very much so,” you agreed, folding your arms a little tighter. “Always the sweetest.”

There was a pause. Comfortable, maybe. Or maybe not.

His eyes focused on yours, and your stomach flipped again in nervousness.

“I…” he started, then cleared his throat. “Well… the cast is coming off in a few days. The doctors say everything’s healing well.”

You raised your eyebrows, surprised for a moment.

“It’s been two months already?”

Time had passed fast.

“Six weeks,” he corrected gently. “But yeah. I’ve got an x-ray coming up, and they think it’s ready. No more pain, and I’ve got most of the movement back.”

“That’s good,” you breathed out. “I mean… a cast like that must be a nightmare in your line of work.

“It is,” he said, smiling faintly. “Though I’ve gotten very good at one-handed everything. Typing. Cooking. Putting on socks. Terribly inefficient, but possible.”

You chuckled.

“Bet you’re counting the days.”

“I am,” he admitted. Then, softer, “Though, it’s going to be hard letting go of some things.”

Your eyes fell to his cast and Dustin’s name on it, and he turned it slowly to look at another spot. Your name.

“He has a lot of drawings and paintings,” you said softly, filling the quiet. “I keep a whole box of them. We go through it at the end of every month, decide which ones to keep and which ones get… recycled.”

It had taken some convincing at first—gentle explanations, a Bluey episode, and a little ritual of choosing which ones to keep and which would ‘go off to become new paper.’ But now it was routine and he even liked it.

Thor smiled, soft and bittersweet.

“That’s one problem I wish I had,” he confessed, softly.

You let out a slow breath. Of course he did.

“Well… you’re at your prime,” you offered, trying to keep your voice light. “Thirties is the best time to have children. Take it from someone who had hers in her twenties.”

He chuckled at that, a quiet sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You looked away, rubbing your arms as the room fell into quiet again, and the silence stretched. Thor turned to watch the stairs, waiting for Duz, and you cleared your throat, trying to make things at least alright.

“Are you…” you looked back at him. “Where… how is Loki?”

He glanced at you, then smiled, a bit more relaxed.

“He’s doing fine,” Thor said. “Off to another adventure. Somewhere in… Denmark, or something like that. He’s sending photos, I’ll probably get a postcard in the mail soon.”

You smiled a little.

“That’s nice.”

“It’s very Loki,” he told you. “He’s just… you know, a wanderer.”

You nodded, and the room became quieter again.

A thought popped into your mind, and you tried to push it back down and quiet it, because, really, you shouldn’t-

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” you asked, anyway.

Thor raised his eyebrows to you, looking a bit surprised.

“It’s lasagna,” you told him. “Plenty of it for four people.”

Thor blinked, clearly caught off guard, but his eyes warmed.

“Lasagna?” he asked.

You gave a small shrug. It was no big deal.

Well, sure, your heart was thundering and your hands were shaking just a little bit, but your arms were crossed, so it was fine.

“Julia made the pasta by hand,” you added. “Very serious.”

He smiled, gentle, and nodded once.

“Then I’d be happy to stay,” he said gently. “If you’re sure.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” you assured him, quieter.

Thor’s smile widened, dimples and all, and for a moment, you forgot about all the reasons you’d tried to keep space between the two of you.

“I’ll… go put it in the oven,” you told him. “So it’s ready at the right time.”

“Of course,” he confirmed. “I’ll wait for Duz.”

“Okay,” you mumbled.

. . .

…

Next Chapter: Chapter 20: Thor invited your family to dinner at his house. (27th of July on Tumblr/AO3)

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TAG LIST IS OPEN

Instead of destroying it, he melted more wax, carefully resealed the envelope, and sat there staring at it again.

She wouldn’t take it, Dean knew she wouldn’t take it.

He knew Ravenna. She was hurt. And she was proud.

She wouldn’t read a word he’d written, not if she could help it.

For a brief, reckless moment, he considered going to her in person. He could march up to her house, knock on the door, and force her to listen. Or better yet, he could climb her window, leave her no choice but to face him, no way to send him away.

It was a stupid idea, of course.

Cornering Ravenna would do nothing but make her dig her heels in deeper. She was stubborn, and he loved that about her, but right now, it worked against him.

Besides, it wasn’t just Ravenna he had to worry about.

Her family was furious with him. Rosetta might curse him out, but she wasn’t a real threat. Lord Pembroke and his son, though? Different story. He had no doubt they’d be waiting, ready to turn him away at best — or put a bullet in him at worst.

So he hesitated. Decided. Then hesitated again.

And after a long, agonising day of second, third and fourth-guessing himself — of pacing, of cursing under his breath, of running through every possible outcome, good or bad — Dean finally sent the letter.

And he waited.

He couldn’t sit. Couldn’t rest. Couldn’t do anything but pace the length of his office, back and forth, again and again, like a caged animal.

Walk and think. Think and walk.

She would burn it, he knew her.

Or worse — she would read it, tear it apart, and send him the pieces.

Dean sat for half a second before springing up again, pacing faster. His coat was too hot, suffocating. He shrugged it off, tossing it onto a chair. Even his waistcoat felt stifling, and he unbuttoned it with frantic hands, running his fingers through his hair.

What if she read it?

What if she replied?

What if she came?

Would she come to him?

…Perhaps.

But no. Ravenna was too proud. Even if she read every word, even if something in her softened, she wouldn’t come running to him. She would wait. Wait for him to prove himself. Wait for him to show up.

Should he?

Maybe… Somewhere neutral, where she wouldn’t feel cornered. In public, maybe?

He could ask Sammy. His brother was always smarter than him and always had some damn solution when he was too much of an idiot to figure things out.

But was there even a solution? Or was he just meant to be bracing himself for the inevitable?

What if she didn’t reply at all? What if she didn’t even acknowledge the letter?

Dean could handle her anger, her sharp tongue, her wrath.

But silence? Indifference? That would ruin him.

That was ruining him!

Maybe she wasn’t even the one to read it. Maybe Rosetta intercepted it, or Lady Pembroke. Maybe they tossed it aside before it even reached her hands, so she wouldn’t be reminded of him.

Or maybe Ravenna read it and laughed. Scoffed at his words. Shook her head, called him a foolish man, and went on with her day, unaffected.

His throat felt dry and he walked to his whiskey, pouring the drink onto the glass, but his hand was trembling when he tried to drink it.

Dean raked them through his hair instead, gripping the strands as if that could somehow ground him.

He should have just gone to her. Should have taken the damn letter himself, forced her to listen, to see that he meant it!

Or maybe that would have been worse. Maybe she would have slammed the door in his face. Maybe Lord Pembroke would have thrown him out, or worse. Maybe his son would have answered instead, and Dean would have been met with a fist before he could even get a word in!

If it was his sister, his niece, his granddaughter… he would do that. Any good man would do that.

Damn it.

Dean rubbed his hands over his face, groaning, slapping his forehead like he could knock some sense into himself. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, eyes shut tight.

He wished he could just skip this part. Close his eyes, open them, and it would be done. Whatever was going to happen would have happened, and he wouldn’t be trapped in this unbearable purgatory of waiting and hoping and agonising.

He opened his eyes and froze at the sight.

A carriage, right outside of his house.

His heart slammed against his ribs, breath catching in his throat as he recognised it.

It was the Pembroke’s carriage.

Had she come?

Was Ravenna in his house?

Dean didn’t think — he just moved. Storming out of his office, his hands fumbled to button his waistcoat, just enough for the bare minimum of decency.

Because if she was here — if she had come — nothing else mattered.

His steps carried him past the drawing room, and that was when he saw it — a head of midnight-dark hair, pinned up with a blue ribbon.

Dean froze, and his breath hitched as anticipation grew in his chest.

But then she turned, and it wasn’t Ravenna, it was Rosetta.

Dean felt his shoulders sagging in disappointment before he realised what this could even mean — why she would be there, who’d come along.

Before he could voice any of the questions tumbling through his head, a voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Do come in, Lord Winchester,” he heard suddenly.

Dean’s gaze snapped downward.

Lady Pembroke was seated before him, her sharp eyes fixed on his face with a look so piercing it could rival Ravenna’s own.

“We are all here to help you, after all,” she said coldly, gesturing toward a chair. “You might as well join us in the thinking.”

He swallowed down, feeling his heart thundering in his chest as he followed her instructions, every muscle of his stiff as he complied. He wasn’t exactly brave enough to disobey someone like Lady Pembroke.

Slowly, he lowered himself into the seat, his mind still reeling. His eyes darted around the room — Sammy, Rosetta, Lady Pembroke — before landing on his brother.

What the hell?

Then Rosetta spoke, pulling his attention to her.

“Ravenna said to return your letter,” she said evenly.

Dean turned sharply toward her, his stomach twisting.

“We read it.”

His hands clenched into fists against his thighs as he braced for the inevitable.

She hadn’t read it, then.

She had turned it away without a second glance.

The realisation hit Dean like a blow to the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs.

“Did you mean it?” Lady Pembroke’s voice cut through his spiralling thoughts, pulling his attention to her.

Dean turned sharply again.

What?

What kind of question was that?

Why would he have sent the damn letter if he didn’t mean it? Why would he be in this state — pacing, sweating, unravelling — if he didn’t?!

“Of course!”

Lady Pembroke’s expression didn’t shift. If anything, her gaze sharpened.

“Every word?” she pressed.

“Every single one!” his spine snapped straight, his words just snaps. “I love Ravenna! I did something terribly stupid, and she doesn’t deserve how much I hurt her, but I… I needed to tell her everything.”

Didn’t they understand?

His blood pounded in his ears. He could hear Sammy inhale beside him, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from Lady Pembroke.

She had to understand.

She had to believe him.

“You spoke of rumours,” she pressed, leaning in slightly, her piercing eyes holding him captive. “What rumours?”

Dean swallowed, looking away in shame.

“I… don’t know,” he admitted, forcing himself not to mumble. His fingers curled into fists. “I thought of asking Crowley, but I…”

The memory came right back to his mind, his own fists slamming into Crowley’s face, the man bloody and bruised under him, still smirking. Still the one who won.

He beat him up.

He clenched his jaw.

“Lost control,” Dean decided, keeping the words proper. “We… had an altercation.”

The silence didn’t linger between them.

“I do,” Sammy spoke up.

Dean’s head snapped toward his brother, his eyebrows lifting.

He did?

Sammy pressed his lips together, clearly unhappy.

“There are two rumours going around about Ravenna and Rosetta lately,” he explained, his voice stiff as he rubbed Rosetta’s hand gently. “One is that you two are poor, that you barely have enough of a dowry between you.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Sammy’s gaze met his, pinning him in place.

“I…” he stared and cleared his throat. “I had heard that once. Passingly. Never believed it.”

He braced himself, waiting for Sammy to continue.

He was stupid. Obviously. But—

He needed the second rumour to be bad. He needed it to justify his reaction.

His mistake, his stupidity… it had to make sense, right?

Sammy exhaled, turning to Rosetta.

“They’re saying Ravenna sacrificed her dowry for you. So you would have something.”

Rosetta scoffed, her expression twisting with offence.

“As if we would ever need that,” she looked away sharply. “He’ll see who is poor at our party.”

Sam kissed her knuckles gently, his eyes full of adoration and protection.

Lady Pembroke huffed.

“That is stupid,” she straightened in her chair, expression full of disdain. “My daughter’s dowry alone could have kept her in luxury for a lifetime had she chosen not to marry, and my granddaughters’ fortunes far surpass that.”

Dean sunk into his chair. Crowley had mentioned that rumour before, hadn’t he? Dean had shut him down.

What else could he even know?

The fear churned in his gut. Had Crowley seen them? Seen him sneaking into the library, catching stolen moments with Ravenna in the corridor? Had someone from Charlie’s house whispered something?

Had Ravenna’s reputation been touched?

And if it had—

That would justify his reaction. His mistake. His stupidity.

Wouldn’t it?

Lady Pembroke, oblivious to the storm in his mind, just continued.

“Besides,” she scoffed. “What kind of grandmother would I be if I knew my granddaughters lacked dowries and didn’t personally provide them with an acceptable sum?”

Rosetta exhaled, tilting her head slightly.

“And the other rumour?” she asked softly.

Dean’s head snapped to them, and Sammy looked at him, his eyes exploring his face, his eyebrows joined together.

His little brother swallowed and Dean waited.

“The other rumour is that you’re wealthy in your own right,” Sammy told them, his voice much more careful and measured. “That your father sent you to England because of some tradition.”

Rosetta’s eyebrows tightened together, her lips parting in confusion before she closed her mouth, finally seeming to understand.

“That he’s still alive,” he finished softly.

Dean watched as the weight of those words settled on her shoulder. He saw the anger flash in her eyes, followed by something deeper. Grief, pain.

Ravenna and Rosetta adored their father. That much was obvious.

Different from Dean’s own father, he had been a good man and was remembered for it.

A good man wouldn’t leave his daughters to fend for themselves.

“It’s cruel,” Sammy exhaled, glancing at Lady Pembroke before focusing on Rosetta again. “Both of these rumours are.”

“Terribly,” Lady Pembroke agreed, her tone crisp. “But not dangerous. Let people gossip about financials if they must, it is none of their concern. The only man who should be considering Rosetta’s dowry is you, Mr Winchester. And as for Ravenna’s dowry…”

Lady Pembroke turned to look at him, critical, and he sunk in his chair.

His mind was just spinning.

“That was it?” he asked Sammy, his voice rough. “Those were the rumours?”

“Yes,” his brother confirmed. “Simple and plain.”

He had ruined everything. He had lost Ravenna over rumours about money?

The least relevant thing in the world to him?

If she was poor, then he would give her money!

Dean had money. More money than he knew what to do with. His businesses, his properties... he could give her whatever she needed, whatever she wanted. He would’ve given her half of it all, thousands of monthly pin money, anything.

And if she was wealthy? It didn’t matter either.

None of it mattered. Not to him.

And yet—

Dean had destroyed the only thing that did.

He’d ruined everything. Everything with the only woman he’d ever loved because of rumours about money.

“Fortunately for you,” Lady Pembroke’s voice broke through his spiral, pulling his focus back to her. “Your improper behaviour went unnoticed. You should be grateful.”

Grateful.

That word felt like a slap.

But even in his haze, Dean wasn’t foolish enough to argue.

“I am,” he mumbled, barely able to get the words out.

Her reputation was safe. That was something, at least.

Ravenna deserved her good name, he knew that more than anyone.

She was a woman of worth. A woman who lived for others, who had devoted herself entirely to her family. She had given everything for Rosetta, and Dean couldn’t help but think that, if Ravenna hadn’t been tied to her sister, she would have long ago left this place. She would have escaped this town, him...

But she stayed. For Rosetta.

She lived for Rosetta.

Dean swallowed down, the realisation falling heavily on him, filling up his stomach and his mind.

Ravenna lived for Rosetta.

If he wanted to fix this — if he wanted to speak to her, to somehow make things right — he needed to understand that. He needed to remember the woman she was.

From the very beginning, Ravenna had only ever wanted to protect her sister, to be there for her.

“I know what to do,” Dean breathed, his voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes found Sammy’s, but his thoughts were miles away.

“If you’re still… willing.”

He didn’t deserve forgiveness, not even a glimmer of it. He was the stupidest man in all of Mayfair. He had let everything fall apart for nothing.

But God, he loved her. He loved her more than anything. He needed her to know that. He needed her to know that every word he had said — that every mistake — was nothing compared to the depth of his feelings for her.

Even if she hated him for it, even if she cursed him and walked away, he needed her to hear him. He needed her to understand that she was nothing like what the any rumours could said or not, that she was so much more than any label, any whisper about a spinster or whatever else people called her. She deserved to know the truth.

And if he had to beg, he would.

“What is it?” Sammy asked.

Dean exhaled, the weight of his decision sinking in. It would seem petty, perhaps even cruel, especially if it were done any other way. Hell, maybe even this way.

But not if they knew, if Sammy and Rosetta and Lady Pembroke knew the truth.

“Mum’s ring,” Dean said quietly, his eyes fixed on his brother.

They had made a pact, the two of them, and it that had been clear for as long as they could remember. Whoever married first, and Dean had always known that would be Sammy, would have their mother’s ring to give to their fiancée. It had always been fair, always had made sense.

The ring was being resized for Rosetta. Sammy was about to pick it up so she would have her official ring.

“Mum’s ring?” Sammy echoed, his confusion clear.

“She would never let her sister go without a ring,” Dean reminded them. “She lives for Miss Rosetta.”

Sammy’s frown deepened, and Dean felt the weight of the eyes watching him. Lady Pembroke, Rosetta, all of them processing what he was saying.

“If you agree,” Dean continued, his voice firm, “tell her I refuse to give you the ring unless she speaks to me and comes to take it herself.”

. . .

Next Chapter: Chapter 54 (Ravenna XVI): Rosetta, Lady Pembroke and Samuel set their plan into motion. (21st of July on Tumblr/AO3)

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You chuckled.

“Well, I’ve never let him near a phone, and he only gets fifteen minutes of TV a day, so…”

A little extreme? Some parents thought so.

But his school didn’t allow electronics, and you were pretty sure you had the only five-year-old in the country who had never held a tablet. And that felt like something.

Thor smiled at that.

“Commendable,” he said. “He’s also an only child. I hear they can be extraordinary.”

Of course, there was that.

“They kind of have to be,” you smirked at him. “No one else to blame when something breaks.”

Thor laughed, that warm low sound that settled too nicely in your belly.

“Me and Loki blamed each other for everything,” he said, grinning. “They told us we were twins, can you believe that?”

You turned to him, surprised.

“Wait, really?”

They didn’t look like twins. Honestly, with their parents’ polished, golden looks, you wouldn’t have even guessed they were brothers at all if you hadn’t seen the family photos. Loki really stood out.

He nodded.

“I think Loki was born maybe two, three days after me. Same hospital, my mother got an extended stay. He didn’t have parents or relatives, they were going to place him in foster care. Father said he looked so much like our sister that he just... felt like it was right.”

You softened. That was sweet. Complicated, sure, especially with what you knew of their sister, but sweet all the same.

“I’m sure there’s more to it they never told us,” Thor added, giving you a faint, knowing smile. “They only told us the truth in college. Until then, we just figured Loki was a weird genetic fluke.”

You smiled back at him.

“I’m old enough to remember the twins coming home,” you told him. “It was just me for a while, so I soaked up all the attention I could.”

“Lucky,” he scoffed playfully.

“Then one day, they sat me down and said I was getting a little brother or sister. And then that turned into a little brother and a little sister,” you chuckled. “They came home, and that was it. My reign as an only child was officially over.”

Thor’s smile turned gentle.

“Sounds like you handled it better than I would’ve.”

“Depends on who you ask,” you scoffed a little. “I hated how much they cried. I once tried to convince a relative to adopt them. I was not handling it well.”

Thor let out a loud laugh.

“You?”

“Me,” you nodded and sighed. “But… you know. Time did its thing and now I can’t imagine a world they don’t exist in.”

Family.

“You think he would handle a sibling?” Thor asked.

The thought made your heart ache a bit.

Not like you could handle another baby, or had a way to make one without some serious research and planning.

“A baby sibling? He’d probably be obsessed,” you smiled. “But… that’s not something that’s going to happen.”

Thor scoffed, nudging your shoulder gently.

“You’re thirty. You’ve got plenty of time.”

You just shook your head at him.

“I do, but there’s only one me,” you reminded him, shrugging. “So… no siblings.”

Thor didn’t insist, nodding slowly.

“Fair,” he mumbled.

The two of you sat in silence, watching Dustin pile rocks in increasingly odd patterns. You squinted at him, head tilting a bit. He was mumbling to himself, clearly narrating something — but whatever the story was, only he understood it.

It was peaceful, if a little heavy in your chest.

It was a bit of time before Thor cleared his throat again.

“Are you well?” he asked.

You turned to him, frowning.

He cleared his throat again, voice quieter this time.

“I mean… are you well? We haven’t really talked in a while.”

There wasn’t pressure in the question, just something calm and an honest worry.

You paused for a moment, not sure of what to say. It wasn’t that simple.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Just… you know, same old.”

“And the house?” he asked.

“No more leaks,” you told him. “Or floodings. Or holes.”

Which was as good as it went with a house like yours, honestly.

“Good,” Thor exhaled. “Good, good.”

You fell into more silence again, and he turned to look at you again.

“I’m sorry.”

You let out a slow breath, looking away as his words settled in you.

“Thor….”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, firmer now. “I need to say that. I am.”

You didn’t answer right away, and just sat there, feeling your heart thundering against your ribs.

“I was damn stupid,” he said with a weak huff. “Loki will back me up on that, I’ve got a real talent for it.”

You shook your head a little but didn’t speak.

“I was reckless,” he continued, quieter now. “And disrespectful to you. That was never my intention, but it doesn’t change what I did. Or how it made you feel.”

You exhaled, eyes on Dustin still as your insides flipped and twisted in your belly.

“I fucked it up,” Thor whispered, voice rough. “I know I did. And I was wrong.”

He paused, the air between the two of you so thick you imagined you could touch the mix of feelings with your hand.

“I don’t expect an apology to fix it or to make you trust me again, but I need you to know I regret what happened. Deeply.”

You turned to look at him, and his eyes were just full of honesty and sadness., and you couldn't answer right away, swallowing down around the knot in your throat, breathing through it.

“He really likes you,” you told him. “Dustin…”

You closed your eyes, shaking your head, the mix of ache and anger in your belly.

“He fucking adores you,” you practically spat.

Did he understand how much that meant? How serious that was? How big it was for a kid to love someone like that?

“I fucking adore him,” Thor said quietly, without missing a beat.

You stared at him, because what the hell were you supposed to say to that?

“I wouldn’t want him to think what I did was any kind of right,” Thor continued. “Or to think not listening to you is a good idea. Or that jumping in without thinking it through, without assessing anything, is something to admire.”

He paused, turning to look at Dustin as your boy ran around with his arms spread out like wings, running like he was an aeroplane.

“I want to be someone who's good for him to be around,” Thor affirmed, his eyes full of fondness as he watched him, shining. “Someone who shows him what respect looks like. Someone who adds good things to his life. Who makes him feel safe.”

Your throat tightened as you looked down, trying to swallow around the knot building there.

“And someone who makes you feel safe, too,” he added quietly.

You closed your eyes for a moment, because, god damn it, you believed him

That was the worst part.

Thor was a good person, kind and honest. He didn’t say things he didn’t mean, and that made it so much harder to stay angry.

“So I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “For what I did. For ruining what we had.”

You let out a long breath.

“We never really…” you tried to argue, but you couldn’t really finish it.

There was the dinner, the basement, the door, and so much time together.

“We did,” Thor said gently. “At least… I did. I felt it. And I think you did too.”

You had one dinner. A lot of days of life things. Time together.

You didn’t reply. Just watched Dustin circle back, pretending to land.

Because it was easy to be angry and decide it was over.

But then he was right by your side, with that voice and those eyes, making your heart just flip and dance and do all possible movements behind your ribs.

“I should’ve done it properly,” Thor said softly. “Asked you on a date. Shown up at your door like a grown man. Not climbed your roof like a goddamn idiot.”

You let out a long breath, trying to blink the sting in your eyes away.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you admitted. “You scared the shit out of me, Thor.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve died. I could’ve had to explain that to him.”

Dustin had already lost his father, did he need to lose someone else? Someone he already loved?

“I know,” Thor said again, quieter. “And that’s what I regret most.”

You looked at him, finally, and his jaw was tight, eyes right on yours like he was waiting to be told to leave.

Like he’d stay if you asked, and go if you didn’t.

It would’ve been so fucking easy if he were cruel. But he wasn’t.

Thor was kind. And stupid. And sincere. And safe.

And, damn him…

He was trying.

You blinked, but one of the tears slipped from your eyes anyway, trailing down your cheek and Thor reached out without waiting a beat, his thumb brushing it away right away.

His skin was warm against your face, and you inhaled at the touch, surprised by how much you missed it, being touched so tenderly.

“I’m sorry I made you cry,” he whispered.

And, God, that almost broke you open all over again.

Another tear slipped down before you could stop it, and Thor’s fingers brushed it again, drying your cheek. You closed your eyes, trying to breathe through the ache in your chest.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he said gently. “Not now. Not more than this moment. I just… I wanted to tell you the truth. That I’m sorry. That I care about him. About you.”

He pulled back slowly, giving you space, his hand falling to his lap as you looked up at him.

“Okay,” you decided, then took in another breath, and exhaled. “Okay.”

…

Next Chapter: Chapter 19: You start letting Thor back into your life slowly. (20th of July on Tumblr/AO3)

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