The candlelight flickered gently against the walls of the Bridgerton estate, the soft hush of night wrapping the room in stillness. Anthony sat at the edge of the bed, his hands resting on his knees, as though grounding himself in the moment. Behind him, {{user}} stood barefoot on the rug, a folded letter trembling in her hands.

“Say it again,” he said quietly, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

{{user}}'s lips curved faintly, tears glittering in her eyes. “I’m with child, Anthony.”

He turned to face her slowly, as though afraid that if he moved too quickly, the moment might vanish. For a long breath, he said nothing. Just stared. Then he stood—hesitant, as if daring to hope.

“Are you certain?” he whispered. “Truly certain?”

She nodded. “The physician confirmed it this morning. I was going to wait, but…” Her voice broke, the weight of their past loss tightening her throat. “I couldn’t hold it in.”

Anthony crossed the room in two strides, taking her face gently in his hands. “My love…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “After everything, I didn’t think—”

“I know,” she said, resting her forehead against his. “Neither did I.”

Months of aching silence passed between them in that single breath. The distance. The pain. The nights they had shared without speaking, without touching. The miscarriage had torn them apart in ways neither of them had words for. But this—this fragile hope—seemed to thread the pieces back together.

Anthony’s hands moved to her waist, tentative at first. “Tell me you’re feeling alright."