Their eyes met, and for a moment—just one—everything else vanished. The noise of the street fell away. The cold was nothing. She could see it in the way he held himself—too still, too careful. As though he, too, was listening for something unspoken. He looked at her like a man who remembered the taste of the fall.And she—well. She had never been wise. But she had beenalmosthis, once. And that had been enough to make the world tilt right.
She could not breathe. Could not think beyond the pounding in her ears. If he moved—if he so much as reached for her—she would shatter, and gladly.
He only looked at her.
Say something,she begged him, though no sound left her lips.Tell me I am not the only one drowning.
But he did not speak.
Elizabeth shifted her weight. The quiet between them bristled—not empty, but expectant, like the air before thunder. He seemed taller here, somehow less shielded. The chill nipped at her fingertips, but she did not move.
“You look tired,” she said softly.
He blinked, once. “You always did prefer candor.”
“It is not an insult.” She hesitated, then added, “I am tired as well.”
Something passed through his expression. Not surprise, not quite. Recognition, perhaps. A shared ache. “I can tell. I never meant to…” he began, then stopped, jaw tightening. “No. That is not it.”
She tilted her head. “Then what did you mean?”
“I wanted—” He broke off again, turned slightly away, as though the words themselves might do harm if spoken aloud. “I wanted it to be different.”
Her throat went tight. “So did I.”
He faced her then. Fully. The street faded, the cold forgotten. His eyes dropped—once—to her mouth. Not long enough to be scandalous. Just long enough to undo her completely.
If he leaned in—just one inch—she would meet him. And if he kissed her, God help her, she would never come up for air.
But he did not.
And she stood there like a woman waiting for a coach she had already missed, pretending the platform was exactly where she meant to be.
“I should take my leave,” he said. “You must be wanted at home.”
“Yes.”
But neither moved.
And then, finally, he stepped back. Just one pace. Enough to break whatever thread had held them suspended.
She exhaled. “Good day, Mr. Darcy.”
He bowed, slow and deliberate. “Miss Bennet.”
She turned first—but not fast. Not before she could hear the breath he took behind her, like he was learning how to be alone again.
And as she walked away, she counted her steps the way other people counted sins. Slowly. Regretfully. Knowing she would forget none of them.
She did not look back. She dared not.
“Do not dawdle, Georgiana.”
“I am not dawdling. I am browsing.”
“You are staring at the same page you opened ten minutes ago.”
Georgiana Darcy sighed and set the volume aside. “It is poetry. One does not consume it like a breakfast roll.”
