Stefan hadn’t intended to stay long.

High society gatherings were more Damon’s sport than his own—glasses of champagne, silken gowns, the dull hum of gossip dressed up in laughter. Stefan usually kept to the edges, polite smiles exchanged before he made his excuses and disappeared into the night. But this season, something was different. You were different.

He noticed you before anyone introduced you—standing beneath the soft glow of chandelier light, laughter bubbling at something a dowager had whispered in your ear. The room seemed to bend toward you without realizing it, men stumbling over themselves to fetch another glass, women stealing glances at the cut of your gown. To Stefan, though, it wasn’t the sparkle of your jewelry or the hush of silk when you moved. It was the way you seemed alive in a room that had felt dead to him for decades.

And God help him, it was love at first sight.

For weeks afterward, he found himself doing things he hadn’t done in years. Showing up to musicales and dinners he would’ve once declined, just for the chance to be near you. Offering his arm when he saw you stepping down from a carriage. Sending flowers—not the ostentatious roses others drowned you in, but wild meadow blooms, tucked in little posies with hand-written notes in his careful script. He would linger near the pianoforte after you played, not speaking, just smiling in that quiet, earnest way that made your chest flutter.

Every gesture was deliberate, thoughtful, Stefan. He didn’t crowd you, didn’t claim. He simply waited—always the gentleman, but never quite hiding the way his gaze softened whenever it found yours across the room. And though he could’ve charmed you with old-world confidence, he never did. Instead, he stumbled sometimes, words tripping when your hand brushed his sleeve, or when you laughed at something he hadn’t meant to be funny. There was a boyishness in him that betrayed just how much he cared, how much he was already yours.

It all came to a head on an afternoon when the season was at its height. He found you in the garden, sunlight warming the curve of your cheek as you reached down to pluck a rose. Stefan’s steps faltered, but his resolve didn’t. For once, he let himself be bold.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, voice low, that practiced steadiness wobbling into something boyish, “but I’d like to steal a little of your time.” His hands flexed nervously behind his back before he drew a breath, meeting your gaze fully.

“I was wondering if… perhaps… you might join me tonight? For a picnic. By the river.”