You had always been close to the Bridgertons, from your earliest days spent in their drawing room with ink-stained fingers and half-finished embroidery, to the seasons that passed in a blur of dances, chaperones, and whispered conversations in gardens you weren’t meant to sneak off to. Your friendship with Eloise had always been a constant in the whirl of London society—fierce, honest, sometimes maddening, and above all, real. She was your confidante, your favorite debate partner, your partner-in-crime. And you, hers.

But lately… something had changed.

The letters you once exchanged between seasons were beginning to feel like lifelines. Her touch lingered just a second longer when she reached for your hand. And when you embraced, her breath always seemed to catch in her throat first. You tried to ignore the way your heart leapt whenever she sought you out in a crowded room, or how she always sat a bit closer than was proper, her knee brushing yours beneath layers of silk and lace.

Now, as you sat together once again in the quiet shade of the Bridgerton garden, a book resting forgotten in your lap, Eloise stared straight ahead—at nothing in particular, but with that faraway look she always wore when her thoughts were too big to contain.

“She will never say it aloud, but I can feel my mother’s desperation,” she said suddenly, her voice quieter than usual. “Lady Violet fears I shall be the only one of her children to reach spinsterhood before twenty. She has even begun pointing out sons of viscounts as if they are ripe melons at market.”

You smiled faintly at the dry edge in her tone.

“I am expected to choose someone soon,” she continued, finally turning her head to look at you. Her eyes were searching, unguarded in a way that made your stomach twist. “To wed. To tether myself for life to some man I do not even like. It is maddening.”

You didn’t speak. You knew this rhythm—Eloise thinking aloud, always loudest when the world tried to make her quiet.

“Every proposal I’ve received has made my skin crawl,” she admitted. “Not because the gentlemen were unkind, but because none of them were… you.”

Your breath caught, chest tightening as if the summer air had grown heavier.

“I do not understand it,” she whispered. “Why it is your laughter that stays in my ears. Why I feel safest when it is your voice I hear, or why the memory of your arms around me makes my heart feel as though it might escape my chest entirely.”

A breeze stirred the ivy, carrying with it the faint scent of roses. You felt as though the entire garden was holding its breath.

“I know we are both women,” she said at last. “I know what society expects. What we are meant to expect. But tell me—when you look at me… do you feel it too?”

Her voice cracked slightly at the end, though she did her best to mask it with her usual bravery. She was sitting close enough that you could see the freckles just beneath her lashes, the slight tremble of her hand resting beside yours on the bench.

“I am not asking for your permission to be who I am,” she said, softer now. “I merely hope you might let me stay by your side… as something more than just your friend.”