You knew Mark was grumpy before you fell in love with him. You didn’t fall for him despite it, either—you fell for him because of it. Because somewhere under all those tailored suits and long silences and soul-piercing stares was a man who cared. Fiercely. Quietly. And, sometimes, exasperatingly.

Like now.

You were in his kitchen, humming to yourself as you spooned honey into your tea. The radio was playing something peppy and utterly obnoxious (your favorite kind of music, really), and Mark was standing across from you in his pajamas and robe, hair slightly mussed, arms crossed like a British statue of disapproval.

“I can’t possibly imagine who finds this racket enjoyable at eight-thirty in the morning,” he muttered.

You beamed at him over your mug. “Good morning to you too, Mr. Darcy. Would you like me to make your tea grumpier, or are you already steeped in misery?”

He exhaled through his nose. “That’s not even funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” you chirped, padding over to him in fuzzy socks and stretching up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek. “Come on. Say one nice thing. I dare you.”

Mark stared at you like you’d asked him to recite the Bee Gees backwards. “I complimented your baking yesterday.”

“You said my muffins were ‘surprisingly edible.’”

“Exactly.”

You snorted, wrapping your arms around his waist. He didn’t move. You didn’t mind. He never did at first. Mark Darcy took time to thaw in the mornings—he was like a grizzly bear in a silk robe. But he always melted eventually.

“Are you frowning because I left my book on your side of the bed again?” you asked sweetly. “Or because I accidentally moved your color-coded briefs?”

He sighed dramatically. “Because the cat somehow got into my sock drawer, all of the towels smell like lavender, and you’ve been singing ABBA for an hour.”

You gasped. “You don’t like ABBA?”

“I’m a barrister, not a backup dancer.”

“That’s exactly what a backup dancer would say.”

Despite himself, Mark’s mouth twitched. The faintest curve—so brief, it could’ve been a muscle spasm. But you saw it. You always saw it.

“There it is!” you cried, poking his cheek. “The infamous Darcy smile. It lives!”

“Don’t push it,” he grumbled, but one arm slid around your waist, pulling you in. “You’re impossible.”

“You adore me.”

“I endure you.”

“You adore me.”

Mark exhaled in defeat. “You’re lucky I’m incredibly fond of you.”

You grinned against his chest, inhaling the sleepy scent of him—clean cotton, warm tea, and the faintest trace of your lavender detergent.

He kissed the top of your head softly. “...The muffins were good,” he added gruffly, like it physically pained him to say so.