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The following week passed in moments rather than days.

They met nearly every afternoon—always in the same warm space, always with tea between them, though the contents of the cups often went cold as conversation outpaced refreshment. There were no more letters. There was no need. Words flowed freely now, not grand or poetic, but honest. Trusted.

They spoke of the past—but only to lay it to rest.

Of Netherfield, and letters once written in haste. Of Pemberley, and its long, echoing halls. Of Elizabeth’s father, and the steady loss that had followed him. Of Georgiana’s laughter, and Sarah’s fierce way of defending her shortbread recipe.

But most of all, they spoke of now.

On Thursday, Elizabeth arrived at the shop to find Darcy already waiting.

He stood outside the door, gloved hands tucked behind his back, his breath ghosting in the morning chill. He didn’t knock. He simply waited.

When she unlocked the door, he offered no greeting—only a small, warm smile. She held it longer than she meant to.

Inside, she lit the lamps as he hung his coat. The shop smelled of cinnamon and cardamom. The fire took longer than usual to catch.

“Would you like to walk today?” she asked suddenly, surprising even herself.

Darcy blinked. “Walk?”

“There’s a small garden near the apothecary, just beyond the cloth merchant. It will be quiet now, with the frost.”

“I would like that.”

She fetched her shawl. He offered his arm.

And they stepped outside together.

The city was quieter in winter. Quieter still in back lanes and garden walls. They found the square half-frozen and utterly still—an iron bench crusted in frost, a birdbath turned to glass, the vines along the fence brittle with ice.

They walked slowly. No need to speak.

Elizabeth could feel the warmth of his arm beneath her fingers, steady and sure. Her own breath curled in front of her, and she imagined, foolishly and without shame, that it mingled with his in the cold.

They stopped at a wrought-iron archway, the kind meant for summer roses. It stood bare now, a little bowed with age.

Darcy turned to her. Not abruptly. Not with drama.

Just turned.

“I do not wish to take you away from what you’ve built,” he said, “nor to offer a grand life as a replacement for your own.”

Elizabeth raised a brow, amused. “That’s a promising start.”

He smiled, eyes warm.

“I only mean,” he continued, more softly now, “that I no longer imagine love as a rescue, or a reward. I imagine it as… this. A shared bench. Cold air. Your hand on my sleeve.”

She said nothing. Her heart was too full.

“I have not come to propose in the way I once did,” he said. “Not to fix, or impress. Only to ask: May I stay? In whatever way you’ll have me.”

Elizabeth looked at him. Really looked.

Not the man she once misunderstood, not the one she had sparred with in drawing rooms. But this man: quiet, weathered, kind. Capable of apology. Capable of listening.

Capable of loving her well.

And that, she realized, had been all she needed to know.

She stepped closer.

“You may stay,” she said. “But only if you keep helping Sarah carry sugar crates.”

He laughed—soft and low, the sound blooming like warmth in the winter air.

“Always.”

They returned to the tea shop hand in hand.

There was no audience for their shared smile, no parade of witnesses.

Only the faint bell above the door, the hush of the hearth, and the familiar scent of steeped orange peel.

It felt—fitting. That something as extraordinary as love, long-earned and quietly restored, would unfold here, in this little corner of the world that Elizabeth had made her own.

She shed her shawl. He hung his coat. The fire crackled back to life.

Darcy rolled his sleeves with practiced care and asked, “What task shall I begin with? Trays or tins?”

Elizabeth pretended to consider it.

“Trays today,” she decided. “You’ve proven yourself a passable porter. Besides, I don’t yet trust you near my lavender blends.”

He gave a mock-sigh of offense and moved behind the counter, just as Sarah entered, cheeks pink from the wind.

She paused, catching the scene—Mr. Darcy, elbows-deep in china and smiling like a man at home.

Her brows lifted. “Did I miss something?”

Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, who nodded faintly.

“Nothing urgent,” she said. “Only a new tradition beginning.”

Sarah blinked. “Right then. I’ll go check the scones.”

By afternoon, the regulars arrived.

The widow across the street. The young solicitor who never finished his tea. The gentleman with the barking laugh who always knocked the cream over. Each one entered to the same cozy scent, the same warmth, the same welcome.

Only now, something was different.

The girl behind the counter smiled more easily. The tall gentleman no longer waited for an invitation. And the air itself held something gently altered, as if the walls had begun listening less to memory and more to hope.

One particularly observant guest—a woman with a sharp bonnet and a novelist’s eyes—watched them carefully as she stirred her cup.

She leaned toward Sarah and whispered, “I believe I’ve just witnessed a love story in its final chapter.”

Sarah, still dusted with flour, gave a half-smile. “Final? Oh no, ma’am. They’ve only just started writing it.”

That evening, as the lamps were turned low and the streets outside fell quiet, Elizabeth poured the last cup of tea of the day.

For herself.

For him.

They sat by the window. The shop darkened around them.

And he reached, as he had before, for her hand. No rush. No performance.

Only presence.

“I don’t need a wedding to call this a promise,” he said quietly.

She looked at him, eyes soft.

“Nor I,” she answered. “But I won’t mind one, when the time is right.”

He raised her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her fingers, and smiled.

“Then I will come back tomorrow,” he said.

Elizabeth, resting her head lightly on his shoulder, replied, “You always do.”