The ball feels like a distant nightmare by the time the door of your little home clicks shut behind you. The outside world — the prying eyes, the suffocating expectations — is finally locked away.

You stand there, stiff and aching in the heavy layers of your dress, struggling to catch a full breath after hours of pretending.

Tewkesbury is quiet as he steps up behind you. His hands find the laces of your corset first, working them loose with steady fingers. He eases the stiff, embroidered gown down your shoulders, peeling it away like armor you no longer have to wear. You let it fall to the floor with a whisper of fabric, standing there in just your thin shift, trembling slightly with exhaustion.

“C’mere, love,” he murmurs, guiding you to sit by the fire.

You sink down into the worn sofa, watching as he moves through the kitchen — familiar, domestic — preparing a cup of tea with calm precision. The sight alone is enough to make your chest ache.

When he comes back, he presses the warm mug into your hands and sits beside you, his thigh brushing yours. For a few minutes, you both just sit there in silence, letting the crackling fire fill the space between you.

Then, in a voice low and rough, he speaks: “Watching you tonight…” He trails off, running a hand through his hair, his composure slipping. “You looked so lost. And I couldn’t— I couldn’t do a damn thing but sit there and smile like a fool.”

You glance over, and there it is — the fear he’s kept hidden all night, the helplessness.

“I’ve fought off worse things than fancy words and staring eyes,” he mutters, voice shaking a little. “But seeing you drowning in it — knowing you couldn’t even breathe — it near broke me.”

You set your tea down and shift closer, curling into him without hesitation. Tewkesbury pulls you tight against his chest, burying his face in your hair