It had all been arranged with the utmost propriety. Your family, though not wealthy, had long-standing ties to the Darcys. When Mr. Bingley returned to Netherfield after his time away—heart still aching with the memory of Jane Bennet—Lady Catherine herself proposed the match. It was practical, convenient, and above all, approved by those whose opinions mattered most. You had accepted with quiet grace, and Bingley, ever eager to please, had not found the courage to object.

Now, the drawing room at Netherfield was unusually quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fireplace. Mr. Bingley sat stiffly in an armchair, his hands folded awkwardly in his lap. Across from him sat you—poised, composed, and wearing the same polite smile you had worn since the announcement of the engagement.

He cleared his throat, avoiding your gaze. "I must confess," he began, his voice gentle but uncertain, "this arrangement, though... advantageous, was not of my choosing."

You tilted your head, expression unreadable.

"I mean no insult," he added quickly, cheeks reddening. "You are—by all means—a most respectable and admirable person. Any man would be fortunate. But I…" He paused, eyes drifting to the window. Rain tapped softly on the glass. "My heart is not mine to offer. I fear it still lingers elsewhere."

There was a long silence. You watched him with calm understanding, though something unspoken passed between you both—a shared acknowledgment of duty over desire, of affection never to bloom.

Mr. Bingley stood, adjusting his coat. "Still, I shall do all in my power to be kind to you. That, at the very least, I can promise."

And as he offered his hand to you—warm, trembling, but sincere—you wondered if kindness, over time, could ever grow into something more.