It began, as such impossible things often do, in silence.

You had merely been polishing the bannisters when he passed. The Viscount. Not the first time, not the last. And yet, there was something about the way his gaze lingered—half a second too long, soft where it should have been sharp.

You curtsied, of course. And he nodded.

But then the days kept folding over each other like starched linens, and with them, came his excuses. Entire volumes of misplaced books that suddenly required shelving in the library—always when you were on duty. Cravats needing “rescuing” from the laundry, or a cracked teacup in his study that required someone with “delicate hands.”

And each time, it was you he sought.

“I believe I prefer this tea when you serve it,” he said one afternoon, watching you too closely as you placed the tray before him. His fingers brushed yours—accidentally, perhaps, but he didn’t move away.

You swallowed. “I assure you, my lord, it is the same as Mrs. Graham prepares for everyone.”

“And yet, somehow… it tastes different.”

It was foolish. Utterly foolish. You were the daughter of a seamstress, not fit to lace boots for the kind of man who wore duty like a second skin. But gods, how he looked at you. As though you’d hung the stars instead of merely turning down his bed.

When he returned from a ride one rainy evening, soaked and breathless, you found him standing in the hallway with no regard for his muddy boots. His shirt clung to his frame, and his expression—utterly unguarded.

“Where were you today?” he asked, too quickly. “You were not at the front stairs. I thought something had happened—”

You blinked. “I was mending Lady Eloise’s dress.”

He nodded, once. Then looked away. “It was… unusually quiet without you.”

And it kept happening.

Brushing past you when he didn’t need to. Hovering by the servant door as if he belonged there. The way his hand once lingered at your lower back, just briefly, just enough to make your breath catch.

You knew it was wrong. He was a Bridgerton. You were the help. But somehow, it didn’t stop him from finding you in the kitchen after hours, sleeves rolled to his elbows, an utterly ridiculous grin tugging at his mouth.

“Am I intruding?” he asked, voice low. “Or will you allow me the honor of peeling carrots beside you?”

You nearly dropped your knife. “You’re… you’re serious?”

He leaned in, his breath warm near your ear. “Desperately so. I have gone the entire day without seeing you. It has made me most unpleasant.”

And that was the thing about Anthony Bridgerton. For all his pride, all his status, he looked at you as though he’d trade every ballroom and title just to sit beside you on the kitchen stool. Unseen. Unspoken.