It began as habit. A gentleman’s gesture.

Every time you walked through a door, Mr. Darcy was already there—tall, still, the weight of centuries in his shoulders—reaching to open it without a word. He never looked at you when he did it. Never spoke. But his fingers lingered just long enough on the handle, as if waiting for your thanks, or your scorn, or something in between.

And when you walked side by side—through London streets or across the gravel paths of Pemberley—he would always, always, offer his arm.

He did it with a quiet formality, like everything else he did. His sleeve would slide ever so slightly forward as he presented it, palm curled behind his back, gaze fixed ahead as if he hadn’t just asked for something without asking at all.

You never took it.

Your hands would fold neatly behind you. Not in cruelty, and not in pride—but because it was easier not to wonder what it might feel like. His arm beneath your hand. His warmth beneath all that wool and restraint. The terrible intimacy of leaning into someone who would never say what he truly wanted.

He never reacted. Never withdrew in disappointment or pressed for more.

But he offered, every time.

Until that night.

The Pemberley gathering had stretched on well past midnight, the guests finally dwindling into their carriages and chamber doors. Music still clung to the walls in faint echoes—ghost-notes of a waltz you hadn’t dared to dance. He hadn’t danced either.

You found yourself in the long hall, coat in hand, half-lost in thought as the storm broke outside. Rain pounded the windows. The wind cried down the chimney. Leaving now was impossible.

He appeared at your side, silent as always, like a shadow slipping into its rightful place.

“I will walk you back to your room,” he said.

The corridor was dimly lit, candlelight catching in the gold trim of his waistcoat. You walked in silence. His footsteps matched yours. One breath, then another.

Then, as always, he offered his arm.