Page 7

Darcy arrived just after three.

He paused at the threshold, as he always did, brushing snow from his shoulders and scanning the shop with quiet care. But today, he did not need to search long—Elizabeth stood behind the counter, already looking at him.

There was something different in her gaze.

She didn’t smile, not quite—but her expression held warmth. Invitation.

He removed his gloves slowly, unhurried, and walked to the usual table.

There, beside the place where she always set his tea, lay the book he had lent her.

And beneath it—a folded piece of cream paper, sealed with a drop of wax.

He looked at her.

She gave a single nod.

Darcy picked up the letter and sat.

Elizabeth turned to the kettle, heart drumming louder than the flame. She busied herself with the blend—his favorite, now known by heart: Darjeeling, a touch of vanilla bean, and a measure of faint citrus rind. Grounding and a little unexpected.

She didn’t watch him open the letter. But she felt it. The shift in the room as his eyes moved down the page, his breath paused, resumed.

The silence stretched—but not long enough to frighten her.

When she turned, he was standing.

Letter still in hand.

He crossed to the counter with purposeful steps, and she braced herself—until she saw his expression.

Steady. Full of feeling. Entirely unguarded.

“I would very much like to answer your question,” he said.

She swallowed. “Then… you received it?”

His voice lowered. “You asked if this—whatever this is between us—is real.”

“I did.”

He laid the letter gently on the counter, then placed his gloved hand atop it.

“I have come here again and again, Elizabeth, not because I wished to relive the past, but because I saw a future in your presence. A quiet, steady kind of life. Not one we imagined before—but one I believe we could build. If you would let me.”

Her breath caught.

Darcy leaned in, his voice gentler now. “I will not rush you. I only ask that you believe me when I say: I come for you. Not out of guilt. Not from longing alone. But because I admire you— still , and anew .”

Elizabeth could not speak for a long moment.

She reached across the counter, slowly, and placed her hand lightly atop his.

“I believe you,” she said.

And for the first time since he had stepped into her shop, Darcy exhaled like a man who had been holding his breath for years.

They sat at the back table that day, where the sunlight spilled in amber through the small side window.

They did not speak often. The letter said what was needed. But they lingered.

Elizabeth poured the tea. Darcy offered her the first cup.

Their fingers brushed. Neither pulled away.