𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒, 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐨𝐧

smoke from the fire.

The morning sunlight streamed softly through the Bridgerton house's upper windows, warming the corridors like the breath of spring. Charlotte Hamilton had barely touched her tea. It sat forgotten on the small table beside her as she looked blankly out over the garden below.

Weeks had passed since the storm - both the literal one and the one that shattered her heart - yet the wound remained raw. Anthony had not stopped trying since that night. Not once. Every day brought a letter, or a rose, or a whispered apology left just out of reach. And yet, she couldn't seem to forgive him. She didn't even know if she wanted to.

"He's in the drawing room again, miss," the maid said quietly, voice apologetic. "Lord Bridgerton. Says he'll only wait five minutes this time."

Charlotte's fingers tensed around the fabric of her dress. Of course he was.

"Tell him..." she hesitated, then forced herself to finish, "...tell him I'm not available."

The maid gave a small curtsy and disappeared. Charlotte exhaled. Not out of relief - no, that was far too simple. What she felt was closer to exhaustion. She wanted to stop wanting him. She wanted to forget how his voice once calmed her nerves or how her body had curved so naturally against his chest. But desire was a stubborn thing. It lingered like smoke in an empty room.

Downstairs, Anthony stood in the drawing room, his posture uncharacteristically uncertain. A single tulip lay in his hand - her favourite, he'd remembered. Pale pink, with a hint of lavender at its edges. It reminded him of her: soft, rare, contradictory.

Benedict stood beside the fireplace, arms crossed.

"You're embarrassing yourself," Benedict said quietly.

Anthony turned sharply. "I am fighting for her."

"You're suffocating her."

Anthony's jaw clenched. "You think I don't know I made a mistake?"

Benedict tilted his head, his voice lower now. "You hurt her, Tony. And you let her believe she was one of many."

"I never-"

"You didn't have to say it," Benedict interrupted. "She saw enough. She heard enough."

Anthony dropped into one of the velvet chairs and looked at the flower in his hand.

"I just want her to see that I was scared," he murmured. "That I've always been scared."

Benedict sat beside him. "Then tell her the truth, Anthony. But stop sending flowers and riddles and half-truths. Talk to her like she is a woman. Not a secret."

Upstairs, Charlotte had not moved from the window. She watched as Anthony stepped out into the courtyard below, alone now. He held the tulip in one hand, turning it over in his fingers as though it might speak back to him.

He looked up - as if he knew she was watching. Their eyes met.

Charlotte's heart lurched.

And then he lifted the flower... and placed it gently on the stone bench beneath her window. No dramatic gesture. No performance. Just... something quiet. Something true.

She pressed her lips together, then turned away.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿･⭑✯･⭑✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

Later that afternoon, Charlotte wandered into the Bridgerton library, hoping for quiet, only to find it already occupied.

Anthony stood by the far shelves, scanning the spines, a forgotten volume in his hand. He looked up as she entered, startled but grateful.