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newfoundstateof · 10 months

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I've been thoroughly enjoying this series. When Harry Met Sally is an all-time favorite, who knew that it could get so much better. Each stray from the source material feels so right, like it was meant to be this way in the first place. Love, love, love this

It Had To Be You: Chapter 6 - Just Somebody That I Used to Know

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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Anthony Bridgerton x Kate Sharma, Modern AU

Summary: Exes cause some unexpected moments for both you and Benedict...

artwork credit @colettebronte

Warnings: not much... swearing, propositioning for sex.

Word Count: 4.0k (longest chapter so far!)

Authors Note: Unbetaed. A multi-chapter modern rom-com retelling of When Harry Met Sally. In this chapter, Benedict runs into his ex-wife unexpectedly, and it throws him for a loop. Plus, Tom's sudden change in status causes a crisis of confidence for reader.

3 months later (15 months ago)

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you elbow him in the ribs, maybe uncharitably, but he’s being mildly irritating. ”Let’s just stick to practical stuff,” you argue, seizing his laptop and bringing it in front of you to take over.

“Come on, who doesn’t need an 18th-century replica cannon?” Benedict argues jovially, hooking his chin onto your shoulder and fluttering his eyelids in an attempt to get his way.

“I would argue your brother and my best friend,” you state pointedly, looking at him askance with a raised eyebrow, even as you secretly enjoy his silliness.

“Hmm, maybe you’re right,” he hums, sitting back up straight, “they’d probably just find a way to actually weaponise it during one of their fights.”

It’s three months later, and, just as she predicted on the first night they met, Kate and Anthony are engaged. Returning from a trip to Lake Cuomo two weeks ago, she had an enormous rock on her left hand and a grin like a Cheshire Cat, not just because of the jewellery. She claimed she orgasmed for thirty minutes straight even before she got the ring. You’re still in a low-key disagreement with her about whether that’s even possible.

Today is an uncharacteristically sweltering June day, so you and Benedict are taking refuge in the cool air-conditioning at Battersea Power Station, down the road from the gallery he’s exhibiting in. You sit on a sofa with iced coffees trying to cobble together a gift registry—a task Kate and Anthony have lumbered you both with as matron of honour and best man.

“Who has their wedding registry at Harrods and Fortnum and Mason anyway?” you grouse.

“Family tradition,” he states airily. Sometimes you forget just how rich the Bridgertons are.

“You’re far too fucking posh,” you roll your eyes. “What’s wrong with John Lewis, like normal people?”

“Tell you what,” one of Benedict’s arms encircles your waist and lightly tickles, causing you to squirm, a distraction tactic to wrestle back control of his laptop with his other hand, “if we get married, the registry can be at John Lewis, and you can explain to my tearful mother why you want to break Bridgerton tradition.”

You know it’s an offhand, meaningless comment said in jest, but the words ‘we get married’ seem to echo around your head, even as he cackles triumphantly to himself and clicks ‘add to registry’ on the ridiculous cannon. As revenge, you swipe his brownie and take a big bite which he attempts to snatch back. You are giggling and tussling, crumbs flying, when a sophisticated French voice cuts into your childish playfulness.

“Benoit!? Je pensais que c'était toi!”

Your giggles die out as you untangle from Benedict to observe a beautiful petite brunette woman with elfin features. She clings to another striking woman who can barely conceal her look of disdain.

You feel Benedict freeze up, his body suddenly tense. Defensive.

“Tessa,” he nods after what feels like an age of awkward silence.

Oh god. It’s her. This is his ex-wife. For some reason, here in London.

“It’s good to see you,” she switches to lightly accented English, her arm gripping the other ladies tighter.

“Likewise,” he says curtly, holding himself stiffly in a way that suggests anything but.

Tessa turns her doe-eyes to you, pointedly awaiting an introduction. It takes him a moment to realise it, and your chest suddenly aches in sympathy for the little-boy-lost expression you can see through the cracked veneer of civility.

“Oh right… Thérèse Durand, Tessa, meet y/n y/l/n,” he gestures flatly. “Y/n, this is Tessa… and Clarissa,” he sneers the other woman’s name, and instantly you know who she is—the one Tessa left him for.

You politely nod and make an awkward small wave gesture, unsure what else to do. Benedict appears to be in some form of shell shock; gently, you squeeze his arm until he blinks as if coming back online.

“Well… I can see you are busy,” Tessa nods at the laptop, “I will not delay you plus,” switching back to French for the last word, exchanging loaded looks with Clarissa.

With another awkward nod, they turn their heels and walk away.

‘She looked weird, didn’t she?’ he stutters as they retreat.

“I don’t know her, Ben,” you remind softly, “I just met her.” Mainly you are concerned by how utterly disconcerted he is by merely bumping into her.

“Trust me, she looked weird,” he affirms, still watching the space they occupied even as they turn a corner and disappear.

You just rub his arm in what you hope is a soothing pattern, unsure what to say.

“Ughhh. A continent of 745 million people… I was just bound to run into my ex-wife at some point, right?” his sarcastic humour flaring as he puts his head in his hands.

“You even tried to put a body of water between you,” you concur, attempting levity. “Seems bloody unlikely to happen… but then I’d say so is a replica cannon for a wedding present, but you insist on it,” you joke softly, bumping his shoulder lightly.

When he tilts his head up and cracks a tiny smile, you breathe a silent sigh of relief.

—

“Although marrying you may suggest otherwise, I have not had a complete taste bypass,” Kate barbs at Anthony as they stand around a coffee table the next day.

They are moving in together pre-wedding, and they definitely have strong opinions about each other’s possessions. You and Benedict have arrived to assist them in unpacking their fancy Kensington mews, but your primary role may well be as referee.

Kate turns to you. “Y/n, please, do you like this thing?”

You purse your lips, not wanting to offend.

“Be honest,” Anthony adds, hands on his hips, looking at your expectantly.

Sheepishly, you shake your head.

“What's wrong with it?” Anthony asks.

“Honey,” Kate loops her arms around his neck, “it’s so awful, I can’t even begin to tell you what’s wrong with it.”

Anthony rolls his eyes, but you can tell he secretly enjoys how she nuzzles his neck, and he pulls her into his arms. “Brother, what do you think?”

Benedict is staring out of the window; he doesn't even turn around, just mumbles. “It’s fine.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, concerned about his moroseness but say nothing.

“Look, I think it will be fine in your home office,” Kate offers conciliatory. “It will go perfectly with that ugly drinks hutch thing,” she suggests, wanting to sound helpful.

“Wait, wait….,” Anthony withdraws from their embrace. “You don't like my home bar??” he throws his hands up in a what-the-hell gesture.

Kate goes to answer but is interrupted by Benedict turning around to speak. “You know, we started like this—little disagreements about things. We thought it was so cute. Well, want my advice? Put your initials on your shit now, so you know whose is whose before it all gets jumbled together.”

“Ben …” you murmur a warning, seeing his irritation flaring. He ignores you.

“Cos someday, believe me, you will go twenty rounds on who gets this coffee table. This stupid, ugly, the-80s-called-and-they-want-their-glass-monstrosity-back will cost you five times as much as you paid for it in lawyers fees from the firm of I-don’t-even-want-this-but-I-want-you-to-have-it-even-less and Sons.”

“I thought you liked it?” Ant counters, frowning deeply.

“I WAS BEING POLITE!!” Benedict exclaims loudly before storming out.

Kate and Anthony gape at the doorway, shocked at the completely uncharacteristic outburst.

“He… he just bumped into Tessa,” you offer quietly as if to explain, then with a nod, go to seek him out.

“I want you to know something,” you hear Kate say as you leave, pulling Anthony into her arms and placing a kiss on his cheek. “I will always hate that fucking ugly eyesore you claim is furniture.”

You find Ben outside lingering on the pavement, kicking a loose stone into the gutter. Looking to all intents and purposes like he needs a cigarette to calm down.

The minute he sees you, he holds up a hand, an admission of fault. “I know, I know.”

“Ben…. you’re going to have to find a way not to express every feeling you have the moment you have them,” you point out, aiming for delicacy.

This morning he berated a kid in Costa for getting his tea order wrong, which is unlike him. You know that the only reason can be bumping into Tessa and all the residual anger and hurt about it bubbling to the surface.

“I just bumped into my ex fucking wife. So yeah, excuse me if I try to warn my brother what a shitshow their life could become,” he grumbles, confirming your suspicions.

“There are times and places for these things… and when they are just moving in together might not have been the time to bring up divorce,” you try to point out gently.

“Oh really? Well, next time you’re giving a lecture on being a fucking droid, R2, let me know, and I’ll be sure to sign up,” he snarks.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!?” you demand, hands on hips indignantly, your own anger flaring at his cutting remark.

“It means nothing bothers you. I never see you get upset about Tom. I never see you get upset about anything at all; in fact,” he derides. “Don’t you care your longest relationship ended? Don't you experience any sense of loss?!”

“I feel things; I just choose to deal with my break up privately, like a grown-up,” you volley back, aiming to wound as much as he did.

“Please,” he rolls his eyes witheringly. “Sleeping with a bunch of idiots doesn't mean you have dealt with your breakup; it just means you’re avoiding it.”

“Better than not fucking anyone, you coward,” you shoot back, hurt he would bring up your recent, mildly slutty behaviour.

For a few moments, it's just a nettled staring match; you are not willing to give an inch.

“Besides, even if we know relationships are more than likely going to fuck up, you don't wish it on your friends or family, right? You want to believe that it will work for them. I mean, I don’t fully get those two as a couple, but fuck they are so happy, Ben,” you gesture at their windows. “I want to believe it will work for them. I really do. And even that it will work for us again one day. That we will find our people.”

You see all the wind fall out of his sails, deflating before your eyes.

“Fuck, you’re right,” he sighs, “I'm so sorry,” he pulls you into a hug. ”I never want to fight with you,” he avows, his breath warm on your temple.

“I'm sorry too,” you admit into his jaw. “I didn't mean the coward thing,” you mumble, feeling guilty but enjoying the warmth of his embrace.

“No, but you’re right,” he concedes. “I need to get back out there properly. God, Tessa just really threw me for a fucking loop yesterday, and I didn't sleep at all. I’m taking it out on all the wrong people today.”

His honest confession feels like the Ben you know and, yes, love. You band your arms around him tighter and stay quiet for a few beats, knowing all is forgiven.

Just as you break apart, Anthony bursts through the front door hauling the coffee table with considerable effort.

“Don't say a fucking word,” he grouses.

—

“Could you come over?” you snuffle as the call connects.

It’s a month after Kate and Anthony moved in together, and you know they are out celebrating tonight, so you don't want to bother her.

“What’s wrong?” Benedict’s cadence changes as he realises you sound off. It appears he’s moving to a quieter spot, the loud background noise of wherever he is fading slightly.

“He’s getting married!” You wail, gesturing wildly so the wine almost slops out of the bottle you are swigging from.

“Who is?” You can hear his frown, even down the phone.

“Tom!” You exclaim over a hiccup as if irritated he can’t read your mind.

“I’ll be right there,” the reassuring promise in his sincere tone makes you clasp your chest. Good old handsome, sweet, reliable Ben. What a great friend.

Half an hour later, you answer the door with a tissue in hand, uncaring that you likely look a state—your hair half up in a messy bun and swamped by an oversized hoodie, concealing your pyjama shorts and vest.

You collapse into Benedict’s arms when he shoots you a sympathetic look.

“Thank you. For coming. Why are you so smartly dressed?” you hiccup into his fancy shirt.

“I was uhh on a date,” he admits reticently as you break apart.

“You left a date!?”

“Yep. I just said my best friend is having a crisis, and I had to go. It’s the truth,” he shrugs.

“Aw, I’m your best friend,” you pout with quivering eyes, which makes him laugh.

“You look like that silly emoji. And, of course, you are,” he says as if it's the most obvious thing. “I mean, I didn't tell her that my best friend is a woman—probably not a first date revelation,” he points out, slinging an arm around your shoulders and manoeuvring you towards your sofa.

“Oh god, first date?! Shit, I'm sorry. Go, go back to her!” You attempt to shoo him away, but he pulls you tighter under his arm and rolls his eyes as he surveys the mess that is currently your living room—so very out of character.

“You really did spiral, didn't you?” he chuckles, picking his way through the scattering of empty crisp packets and Cadbury wrappers to place you back on the sofa.

“She is supposed to be his rebound fling; she's not supposed to be ‘The One’,” you bawl, pointing at your laptop screen, still open to Tom’s wedding invitation.

Benedict takes the laptop and sighs, exiting the email window and smiling to himself as he sees your wallpaper - it's you and him in the novelty photobooth from last year's New Year party, heads together and grinning inanely. He closes the lid and twists to look at you, realising you have indeed not dealt with the heartbreak of your split with Tom at all over the last few months. You were just in denial about it all up until now. Knowing he has to tread carefully, he touches your shoulder.

“You broke it off because you wanted different things, remember?” he soothes. “Do you suddenly want kids?”

“No,” you pull a disgusted face.

“Then this is for the best,” he posits, brushing the hair from your cheek caught in your tear tracts.

“I’m difficult,” you lament, wallowing in a touch of maudlin self-pity now you have an audience.

“Challenging,” he amends with a crooked smile.

“I’m too closed-off and particular,” you throw out.

“You know what you want and refuse to compromise,” he argues, rubbing a thumb over your cheek in a comforting motion.

You look up from your self-indulgent tears and see his handsome face defending your worst qualities as positives, and you have never wanted another human more in your life. Perhaps the bottle of wine isn't helping, but right now, all you want - emotionally, physically, sexually - is the man before you.

“Fuck me, Benedict,” you murmur.

He barks a laugh. “Yeah, you've got yourself in a pickle,” he opines, bemused. And you wonder if he's being deliberately obtuse.

“No…” you clarify, placing your hand over the one curled around your face. “Fuck me. Please,” you stare into his eyes intently, making your request clear.

A thousand reactions ripple across his face, mostly surprise and confusion, but you also see how his pupils dilate, making your heart race.

“I don't think that’s a good idea,” he stumbles as his gaze flits to your mouth.

“That's not a no,” you point out, boldly swinging into his lap, straddling him, as you see him wrestling with so many thoughts.

“We are best friends,” he whispers, sounding almost afraid.

“And as my best friend, I am asking you to take me to bed and fuck me,” you state plainly, sliding your thighs wider until your core rocks over the seam of his jeans, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck.

“You've had too much to drink.” He sounds like he's trying to clutch at straws, but you don't miss how his hand is gripping your hip now, fingers warm through the cotton of your pyjama shorts.

“Enough to be emboldened, not enough to be unaware of what I'm doing,” you supply, attempting to alleviate any fear he may have of taking advantage. “You would simply be helping a friend in need, please.”

With your cards now all on the table, you see he is frozen, the conflict writ large on his face and part of your heart cracks. Oh god, maybe he doesn't want this, and he has no idea how to let an upset, vulnerable friend down gently.

“Fuck…” you mutter and drop your forehead onto his shoulder. “I never stopped to consider you may not want to fuck me anymore. I’m such an idiot. That was 11 years ago….”

The hand on your hip flexes.

“That's not the problem,” he growls, and your head shoots up to see the vein in his temple pulsing.

“Then what is?” you whisper, your limbic system alive with the idea he finds you attractive.

“You have just found out your ex is getting married, you drank a bottle of wine, and now you are propositioning me. I’m worried a large part of you will hate me tomorrow if I say yes,” he confesses, sounding almost vulnerable. “I’d prefer to keep you as a friend than fuck you and have you resent me for it.”

“But you want to?” you whisper, craving the affirmation to your fragile ego.

“Like you wouldn't believe,” he barely murmurs it. “But please get off me.”

You see the sincerity in his eyes and back down, feeling so many things in your tipsy heart—guilt you backed him into a corner, sad he turned you down, happy he respects you enough to do so.

Believing it is the grown-up thing to release him from this messed-up evening, you climb out of his lap and head towards your front door. The shame and embarrassment are starting to creep in; your need to hide and deny what you did ramping up.

“You are a better friend than me,” you acknowledge as he trails behind you. “And I apologise. Thank you. I guess I just needed confirmation that I'm desirable to someone.” you mumble, looking at the floor.

“Didn't you just have a date last week?” he points out as you both hover in the hallway.

“Yeah, but that's different….”

“How?”

“It's not someone who truly knows me,” you sigh, finally looking up at him again. His eyes are soft with understanding. He's so beautiful you almost want to cry.

“I need you to know something…” his voice even, but there's something awkward in the way he stares at the wall over your shoulder as he speaks, “....you are a beautiful, sexy woman. Anyone would be lucky to have you. I just….” He trails off, struggling for the right words.

“I understand,” you nod conciliatory. “I’m going to be mortified when I sober up,” you admit sheepishly, and you see his shoulders slump.

“I can’t leave you, not like this. I’d be a bad friend.” He takes a deep breath and steps aside into your kitchen. “Come on,” he coaxes when you just stand there staring at him. “Let’s get you a cup of tea and sobered up.”

You then watch as he potters around your kitchen making you toast and tea at 9 pm on a rainy Thursday evening. It’s such a wonderful, giving thing to do that you can only stand there and watch, mildly dumbstruck. It’s only when the inviting aroma hits your nose that you realise you haven’t even eaten anything except crisps and chocolate since yesterday.

He leads you to the sofa and then hands you a steaming hot mug of tea just how you like it and a plate with two perfectly toasted slices of bread slathered in butter. You tackle them greedily, murmuring your thank yous as he takes a seat in your armchair, a respectable distance, and queues up something brainless for you to enjoy.

You don’t talk as the next two hours unfold, him giving you space but also his presence so you don’t spiral into thoughts of how your rash moment may have ruined your friendship. Wordlessly telling you he is here as a friend and everything will be okay, despite the awkwardness. Bringing you another round of tea and toast, making himself some this time too. Even handing you paracetamol from your bathroom cabinet to pre-empt the muzzy head you can feel approaching. It's like he can intuit your needs before you can, making your heart clench even harder.

“I’m mostly sober now,” you confess quietly as an episode of the show you’re watching ends. “And I’ll be okay, honestly. Thank you for dropping your plans and coming to check on me. And I’m truly sorry for what I did. Propositioning you. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Let's consider it even,” he smiles mildly. “For the car ride from St Andrews?” he prompts when you look confused.

“Okay,” you giggle, heaving a huge sigh of relief, knowing somehow all is forgiven.

“Now, if you are truly okay, I shall get out of your hair,” he offers, slapping his legs before rocking to his feet.

“I'm okay,” you confirm quietly, a little pang in your chest that is not wanting to be alone but not saying it. Instead, you also stand up and drift again towards your front door to show him out. You want to ask him to stay but know it's a selfish request.

“Thank you, bestie,” you overenunciate and throw your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for a bear hug.

“You are welcome, bestie,” he chuckles into your hair.

His body is warm and feels wonderful pressed against yours, and you linger, just indulging in the feeling of being held, squeezing your arms a little tighter, burying your face into his neck and huffing his delicious aftershave. You know you are pushing the boundary of what is acceptable for a hug between friends, but he's not fighting you off.

You pull back a little to look into his eyes. “Thank you, Ben, for everything,” more sincere now, sotto voce.

“You’ll be okay,” he assures, smoothing down your hair with tender strokes. “Dorset was just a blip on your radar. There is someone much better out there for you. Don't let him be the reason you doubt yourself. He is not worth your tears.”

It's a beautiful, supportive speech, and on instinct, you push up to give him a quick peck on the lips as a thank you. Just like at New Year's, his lips are warm and plush beneath yours as you press into them. Except this time, he freezes, and instantly, you realise your mistake.

“Shit, sorry,” you murmur as you fall back to your flat feet, realising that was a foolish move after what transpired earlier.

Something feels charged, and you sense a change in him, in his breathing.

“Again.” It's almost a snarl, and you worry you have annoyed him.

“Yes, Im sorry again,” you confirm meekly.

“No,” his eyes pop open, blazing, and his voice has taken on a different tone, almost foreign. “Again.” You merely frown until he pitches forward, his breath harsh on your lips. “Kiss me again.”

“But….” you begin to protest, even as you do as he asks, heart in your throat. Your lips meet, and he kisses you back this time—ferociously.

And a firework explodes in your chest.

It's as if you have never been kissed before, your skin tingling all over with instant exhilaration. As your lips slide together in an almost desperate dance, his hands grab your face, tilting your head to the left. Then he is opening his mouth….

Oh fucking hell.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989

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newfoundstateof · 1 year

Text

Feeling so well fed after reading this series. It’s heart warming, heart breaking, and everything in between

Love to Spare - Part 7/finale (Anthony Bridgerton x Reader; Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!Reader Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Angst resolved, brief smooching, a happy ending(?) see Notes at end GIF by me Word Count: 2.6k Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Summary: Two conversations with Anthony and a life changing event. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

First thing the next morning, before you had even gone downstairs for breakfast, a messenger arrived with a note from ‘A’, summoning you to his apartments. Clearly Benedict had told him about the events of last night. Shaky due to your lack of sleep and overwhelmed with your thoughts, you ignored it. At afternoon tea, he barrelled into your front hall unannounced. All it took was one dashing smile from Lord Bridgerton as he requested to speak with you privately, and your mother went flitting away in breathless, joyful anticipation.

Anthony stalked into the drawing room, eyes stern, his long dark riding coat cutting a picture of concentrated power.

“I asked for you, but you did not come.”

He may have intimidated others this way, but you had known him too long and too well to be cowed. You stuck your nose in the air. “Firstly, you cannot command my presence at your whim, and secondly, I needed time to think.”

He stood, looking impatient. “And has your thinking concluded?”

You nodded. “I believe it has. I will arrange a meeting with Sir Edgar and have it all settled.”

“Settled in that…?”

“In that we will be betrothed.”

Anthony stared at you, his expression unfathomable. You paused. You had assumed all his puffery in marching in here was to berate you for nearly marrying his brother. You had expected him to be happy with your decision, but he just looked perplexed.

“That is what you wanted to hear, isn’t it? Sir Edgar is kind and temperate, and his finances are enough to support my family. It is all thanks to you. You helped me to find a husband, as promised.” You eased your tone, expressing genuine gratitude for all he had done. As you spoke, he stripped off his coat and sat heavily on the sofa across from you.

After staring at his clasped hands for a moment, he looked up. “Benedict proposed to you.”

Here was the chastisement you had been expecting.

“Yes, I am aware. And I rejected him.” You said firmly. When he did not respond and just kept staring at you, you began to grow nervous. He was clearly so upset with you that he couldn’t speak. He must have seen your relationship with Benedict as a betrayal. Perhaps he would never forgive you. Perhaps this was the last time he would see you. The thought of losing your friend made the fear rise in your chest. You began pleading with him, rambling, desperate for his forgiveness.

“Anthony, please believe me that I did not court his affections. At least…I think I did not, and it was the last thing I expected and…”

“Why did you refuse him?” He cut you off, his voice surprisingly quiet.

“What?”

“He too is kind. While he may not be temperate in his drink, which I know does not offend you, he is temperate in his manner, and his finances are more than sufficient to care for your family. All things considered, he not only matches but outpaces Sir Edgar.” Everything in his tone and posture was matter-of-fact. What on earth was he playing at? Was he toying with you as punishment? Did he want you to invent deficiencies about his brother and relay them all to him? You were entering dangerous territory and you felt entirely lost.

Anthony leveled his eyes on yours, his words filled with gravity. “Do you want to marry him?”

Something stabbed through you. “Anthony,” you exhaled nervously. “He is your brother. You made it quite clear how you felt about such a prospect when he and I first met.”

His brown eyes continued to blaze into yours, that glare you were so familiar with. “That is not what I asked. Do you want to marry him?” Each word carried the weight of a stone.

The sadness was starting to close around your throat, the despair that made you feel torn in every direction. You remembered the taste of Benedict’s lips, the light of hope in his beautiful eyes and how it had faded when you refused him. You opened your mouth to reply, but just gaped like a fish.

“Do not lie to me,” Anthony’s voice was low and threatening. “I’ll know if you do.”

Unable to take any more of the cruel confusion he was orchestrating, you huffed. “Oh really, and how is that?”

“You have a look about you. One that I have not seen before.” His voice was still a low rumble, but you were beginning to sense a weakness in it. He leaned back in his seat, eyes searching over you at a wider angle. “Well, not from you anyway. You look at him…” Then he suddenly turned away, chewing on his lip. “...the way my mother looked at my father.”

Your last thread of control broke, and you let the tears stream down your face. Your voice shook with sobs. “Anthony, I’m sorry! It will pass. I will marry Sir Edgar and this will all fade behind us.” You knew that you were trying to convince yourself as much as reassure him, but the aching in your heart made you doubt that your feelings for Benedict would be so easily forgotten.

He turned back to face you. “You would give up your first choice for my sake?”

Despite the tearing feeling in your chest, the answer rang out instantly from your mind and your lips. “Yes.”

He leaned forward again, his brow knitted, so expressive, but you weren’t sure of what. “Why?”

“Because that is what you do for the people you love!” You spluttered, relieved to have a question you could easily answer. Anthony stiffened and blinked, and you could see tears begin to prick at his eyes.

Taking a steadying breath, you pressed on, finding your confidence. “I believe you know that kind of sacrifice very well. I loved you first, Anthony, and I have loved you longer. I would never do anything that complicated our friendship.”

He stared at you, the tears building, the silence growing thick as it stretched on for an untold length of time. You didn’t know what else to say. With his aversion to love, you weren’t sure if your declaration was the balm you had hoped it would be. If it was not sufficient for him, you had nothing else to offer.

At long last he sniffed and straightened his posture, blinking the tears back.

“Well, it will complicate things.” His tone was clipped, and you felt your heart begin to sink. “If you do not marry Benedict.”

Your breath hitched. Your ears rang. Surely you had misheard him. “What?”

“You will both become even more insufferable than you already are.” He began to relax into the cushions, his voice rising back to its usual assertive volume. “The two of you, all these weeks, mooning around and thinking no one noticed. I can’t have a single bloody conversation with my brother without it inevitably turning into his questions about you. If you were to marry someone else, the man would write a whole book of poetry describing his heartbreak and I would be forced to listen.”

Slowly, you felt something lifting inside you, realization dawning.

Anthony carried on, rambling with playful quasi-irritation. “You should have heard him when he told me about last night.” Then he pulled a dramatic face and adopted a mimicking lilt. “‘All the light has gone out of the world, brother. She is my anchor, and without her I am adrift.’ Good god.” He scoffed and shook his head.

You laughed, trembling with relief. You felt like you were glowing, joy beginning to surge through your subsiding tears. For the first time since arriving, Anthony grinned. He leaned toward you and spoke softly. “And as for you, it would be entirely irresponsible of me to see you off into a marriage knowing that you could have had another with the promise of even more happiness and security. I would not be honoring the memory of your father as I should when I owe him so much, and it would be my greatest failure as your friend.”

New tears threatened to fall, but they were not tears of sadness. You were so overwhelmed with disbelief, you could barely speak. “I thought you would never support our match.”

“I still do find it strange.” Anthony nodded thoughtfully. “I know far too much about Benedict to convince myself that he could ever be worthy of you. But I suppose if you must marry, it’s best that you marry a man who already aggravates me and over whom I have the most influence.”

He quirked an eyebrow at you and you both chuckled. He reached out and took your hands in his own. “Truly, if there was one man in the world I could trust to make you happy, it would be him. And I know I can trust you to help me keep him in line.”

“Yes, you can.” You smiled and tried to get control of your nerves. This was truly happening. He was giving you his blessing, propelling you into a life happier than you could have ever hoped for. “Anthony, are you certain?”

His grip tightened. “Y/f/n, you said you loved me.” He looked down briefly, swallowed, then looked back with his soul on full display in the warm depths of his eyes. “I love you too, and nothing would please me more than for you to be my sister. My true family, hereafter.”

You began to cry again, sinking forward and kissing his hands. Then the two of you laughed uncontrollably and you smiled so widely for so long, you thought your face might freeze that way. When you both exited the drawing room, beaming and tear-stained, your mother began to whoop in celebration. You confirmed to her that you would be married, but she remained utterly confused as you both clarified repeatedly that the groom would be Mr. Bridgerton, and not Lord Bridgerton. Regardless, she happily followed as Anthony escorted you both to Bridgerton House in his carriage, where he installed her with his mother, then left you in a room alone with Benedict, wordlessly closing the door with a stern look that you knew was for show.

Benedict looked to have had as little sleep as you, and he stood in silence, his face bloodless and confused. When you turned to him with an irrepressible smile and ran into his arms, a grin broke out across his face that rivaled the sunshine. You explained everything breathlessly, apologizing for refusing him, divulging your misgivings, and sharing Anthony’s blessing for you both. He gathered you into a desperate kiss, pulled back and laughed, then kissed you again.

You clung to his waistcoat, pulling him tight against you. You felt so buoyant with joy, you needed the weight of him to keep you rooted to the earth. Your kisses grew deeper, and you found yourself pressed back against a sofa, Benedict stepping closer between your thighs, your knees rising up to frame his waist. Then you heard your families’ voices approaching down the hall and leapt apart from each other, straightening yourselves. God above, this man could not become your husband fast enough.

---

Happily, the customary month of wedding planning passed in a blur. You met with Sir Edgar to gently inform him of your betrothal, and he took the news in the quiet, passive way he seemed to respond to everything in life. While your mothers scurried about in their joy, Benedict committed himself to establishing your home. He purchased a small stately house in Kent with an expansive study, which he then filled with copies of the books your father kept in London. He wanted you to pursue your dream and write about the law. He even enlisted the help of his sister Eloise who, he explained, ‘had nothing if not superb gifts for writing and argumentation’. She delighted at the prospect of helping you publish under a pseudonym, and promised to be your proofreader.

Most touching of all, as a wedding gift he painted a portrait of your father inspired by the one at your London home. Though he had never met the man, the new portrait was somehow an even truer resemblance, and you had it hung proudly in the center of your new study.

On your wedding day at Aubrey Hall, you were expecting to be a knot of nerves, but all you felt was incandescent happiness. Once dressed, you met Anthony in the main hall, just the two of you. He watched you, eyes shining, as you descended the stairs. You stood before him, unable to hide your smile.

“Y/f/n,” He breathed, his brow creasing with emotion. “You look so beautiful.”

You blushed. You couldn’t believe that this day had arrived. That you were getting married and were genuinely thrilled to do so. For him to share in it by your side only added to your immeasurable joy. You wanted him to experience these feelings for himself someday, and silently vowed that you would ensure he did.

Anthony continued to take in the sight of you. “I always knew that I would give away my four sisters. But I didn’t expect to give away my dearest friend.”

“And into your brother’s clutches, no less.” You quipped.

“Indeed, it is still hard to believe.” He nodded with an exaggerated sigh, then stepped toward you and took both of your hands in his. “But if you have found something to love in that madman, and it means I get to see you more often, I suppose this is a beneficial arrangement for us all.” He smiled, then his voice dropped, low and sincere. “I am happy for you.”

He squeezed your fingers lightly and you both stood in a comfortable silence together. In his beautiful brown eyes you saw all the facets of him you had known throughout the years: the boy, the viscount, the drunkard, the friend, the damaged and the angered, the supportive and the honorable. All of them pieces that you cared for, pieces that culminated in who he was that day.

You fought to restrain your tears and not ruin your appearance, but whispered, “Anthony, you are a true gentleman. Thank you for always being here for me.”

“I always shall be.” A beat of silence as his eyes held yours, then he cleared his throat and straightened. “If Benedict ever does anything to upset you, you must tell me and I will make sure retribution is swift.”

You laughed, blinking the tears away, then rolled your eyes at him. “Are you both going to behave like this throughout the entirety of my marriage? Using me as a pawn to punish and compete with one another?”

Anthony smiled broadly, pulled your arm through his, patted it and stood at your side. “Probably.”

The rest of the day was nothing but bliss. Anthony walked you through the grounds and into the gardens where your family and friends were gathered. Benedict stood, radiant at the end of the aisle beside the vicar. Anthony walked you forward proudly, placed your hand in his brother’s and wrapped his around both of yours, lingering for a moment with a soulful look. He only stepped back when Benedict shot him a wink, then they both smiled, took their places, and you wed the love of your life.

---

You first saw the boy when you were sixteen. It was loss that brought him into your home, grief that made him stumble back to your doorstep. But from that pain blossomed a quiet love, nurtured over time, which grew to entwine more hearts than your own. It brought you your husband, it bound your families together, and it transformed your best friend into the brother you always felt him to be. It was an abundant, enduring love, as steadfast as the man you found it with.

Fin.

Author's notes:

1. My overall hope for this work is that it portrays my IRL feelings for Anthony. Is he/JB 100% gorgeous/would smash? YES. But IRL me has so much in common with Anthony that I empathize with him more than I lust after him, and I just want to hug him and have him be my best friend/brother/father figure. All my romantic/lustful/dirty/filthy energy goes toward Benedict. There are so many beautiful fics for Anthony, I wanted to add my kinship kind of love for him to the collection.

2. That said, some readers have been wondering about the potential for friends-to-lovers with Anthony, so I want to add: it’s a happy ending for Reader, but for Anthony it’s unclear. You can believe that there was only ever a friendship here and Anthony is truly happy with the marriage. OR, the angstier option is to believe that Anthony was harboring some romantic love for Reader/realized he loved her during their drawing room conversation. At that point, when she is admitting she loves Benedict and calling Anthony a friend, he knows he missed his chance. So, he represses his feelings and puts everyone else’s happiness first, just like the sad dutiful Anthony we all love him for 💔 The choice is yours 😉

Tagging: @venomsvl @colettebronte @faye-tale @fiction-is-life Thank you for cheering me along the journey! And @makaylan @chaoticcalzoneranchsports to declare an end to the angst - maybe? (see note 2).

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