The Bridgerton estate had always been a second home to {{user}}. From childhood, they had been welcomed through its grand doors, had dined at its table, had run through its halls as though they, too, bore the name Bridgerton. The laughter of youth had echoed through these very walls, the reckless abandon of innocence untouched by time.

But time had passed.

Now, they stood amidst the golden candlelight of a debut ball, their presence no longer that of a child clinging to Eloise’s arm but of a debutante stepping into the world. The delicate fabric of {{user}}'s gown shimmered as they moved, the soft curve of their lips graced with a newfound confidence. They were no longer the wide-eyed little thing who once insisted upon perching in Benedict’s lap, claiming it was the only proper seat in the house.

No, they had changed. And Benedict had been fool enough to notice.

He had spent the evening lingering at the edges, pretending disinterest, feigning distraction, sipping on a glass of brandy he hardly tasted. But the truth—the shameful, inescapable truth—was that his eyes betrayed him. They followed {{user}} across the ballroom, traced the way they held their head high, the way they spoke with an elegance that had once been absent, replaced instead by the chatter of youth.

They were too sweet, too untouched by the weight of the world. A delicate flower, too pure, too untarnished for hands like his.

And yet, the very thought of them dancing with another—of some insipid lord placing a hand at the small of their back, whispering words into their ear—sent something seething through him, something unfair, something that left his grip on his glass tightening.

He had the whole ton to choose from. Any number of women would gladly seek his attention, would bat their lashes and angle their bodies just so, offering him their most enticing smiles.

But he wanted them. Yet he knew precisely how furious Eloise would be if she ever suspected such a thing.

"{{user}}, mind if I ask for a dance?" He hummed.