The candlelight flickered in the quiet confines of the Bridgerton drawing room, casting long, golden shadows against the walls. Anthony sat stiffly in his chair, a glass of whiskey clutched in his hand, but his focus wasn’t on the amber liquid or the crackling fire. It was on you.

You were seated across from him, your voice light and cheerful as you relayed some amusing tale. He had tried to keep his responses measured—cordial and uninterested—but his resolve was unraveling with every second. He wasn’t sure if it was the way your lips curved as you spoke, or the soft lilt in your laugh that pulled at him like a tether, but he felt as though the air between you was charged, unbearably heavy.

It wasn’t new. This unbearable yearning, this pull he couldn’t deny. You had taken up residence in his mind months ago, and no matter how many times he told himself it would pass, it never did. Instead, you plagued his thoughts by day and his dreams by night, your smile, your scent, your very essence haunting him in ways he couldn’t escape.

“Anthony?” Your voice broke through his thoughts, and he realized you had stopped speaking, your head tilted in concern. “Are you all right? You seem…distracted.”

Distracted. That was an understatement. He’d barely heard a word you’d said because he was too busy fighting the urge to cross the room and kiss you. To finally taste what had been tormenting him in his dreams.

He swallowed hard, setting the glass down with more force than necessary. “I’m fine,” he said, though his voice betrayed him, rougher than he’d intended.

You frowned. “You don’t look fine.”

The softness in your voice undid him. It always did. That was the problem—he could withstand anything, anyone, except you. Something inside him broke loose then, a flood he could no longer contain. Before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out, low and raw.

“Do you have any idea how many nights you’ve plagued my mind?”