Darcy stood at the edge of the room, his face a mask of indifference as the raucous laughter and clinking of glasses filled the air. The party was in full swing—just the kind of event Charles thrived in. For Darcy, however, it was little more than a cacophony of frivolous excess, a spectacle he had no desire to indulge in.

Candles flickered in their sconces, as if echoing his disdain, threatening to snuff out amidst the laughter and music that seemed to suffocate the air. His expression remained carefully stoic, betraying nothing, but his eyes drifted through the crowd despite himself, searching.

Not for Charles.

His hand flexed absently at his side, the memory of a quiet afternoon flickering in his mind—the warmth of your hand in his as he helped you into the carriage.

A shrill giggle pierced through his thoughts as a woman, clearly having had too much to drink, stumbled. He stepped back, letting her pass without so much as a glance, the notion of assisting her never crossing his mind. The party was insufferable; he needed air.

With a tightly controlled exhale, he made his way toward the balcony, eager to escape. As he pushed the doors open, the cool night air greeted him, carrying with it a sense of relief—until he noticed the dark silhouette already standing there. The soft glow of the moon bathed the figure in silver light, and though your back was to him, he knew immediately who it was.

"I would have assumed you'd be enjoying the festivities," he said, the formal tone of his words failing to convey the torrent of thoughts behind them.

When you turned to face him, the words he'd rehearsed, the ones he'd needed—wanted—to say, disappeared from his mind entirely. In that absurd, ridiculous moment, a sudden, unexpected rush came over him. The idea lodged itself in his chest, unsettling him deeply: he wanted to ask you to dance, something he had always loathed.

His hand flexed again, almost unconsciously, as he swallowed the impulse, unsure what to say.