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Stede adjusts his cravat for the fourth time and tries not to fidget. Mary’s hand rests lightly on his arm, her presence steady in a way he doesn’t deserve. He tells himself he should be grateful—for the attention, for the compliments, for the polite nods of approval from men he doesn’t care to impress.
It's a church event, one of approximately five thousand this year. He's tired. Mary is tired. They are, by turns, social and not. Tonight, she's holding his arm, and he's holding back a sigh, and they're both pretending it's enough.
And then he sees him.
Izzy Hands, across the room, black coat severe against the sea of pale silks. His mouth set in its usual scowl, his stance taut as if he’d rather be anywhere else. But his eyes—sharp, unrelenting—catch Stede’s for a moment too long. It’s nothing, only a glance, but it slices through the evening like glass breaking.
Stede looks away too quickly, heart hammering. Mary doesn’t miss it. Of course she doesn’t.
She tilts her head, studying him with a kind of curiosity that makes his stomach twist. She doesn’t speak, not here, not yet. Just a small, knowing smile as the music swells and the dancers take their places.
And Stede—Stede smiles back. Because what else can he do?
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They make a slow turn about the room, their smiles fixed, their steps measured. The band scrapes out another slow waltz, and Mary thinks not for the first time that these evenings are more exhausting than battle must be.
Then, in the press of silk and velvet, Evelyn Higgins appears. On her husband’s arm, cheeks flushed from wine, eyes bright with amusement at some private joke.
Mary feels it like a jolt under her ribs. She schools her expression instantly, but not before Stede glances at her and sees. He always sees.
It’s only a flicker—Evelyn’s hand brushing her husband’s sleeve, the tilt of her head as she laughs. And Mary, aching in her bones with it, the longing so sharp she can hardly draw breath.
Evelyn is here, and alive, and laughing. Her gown is deep red, her eyes alight with joy as she and her husband circle the dance floor, lost in the moment, lost to one another.
Mary tries to memorize her: the elegant arch of her neck, the curl of her blonde hair, her strong, slender arms. The way her voice sounds when she laughs, as if the sound itself were a precious thing.
She would give anything, she thinks, anything at all to touch her, just once.
Stede takes her hand. Their fingers lace together. When Mary glances at him, his gaze is gentle, kind. The music is fading.
"I can make up some excuse to speak with him, if you like," he murmurs.
She smiles gratefully and squeezes his hand. "That would be very kind."
✨✨✨✨✨✨
"Really, it's quite opportune that you should have shown up this evening." Stede smiles and extends a hand. "I've been meaning to speak with you about the horse track."
Marcus Higgins clasps his hand, grip firm, voice booming with some practiced anecdote about bloodlines and odds. Stede nods in the right places, words tumbling from his own mouth almost automatically.
In the corner of his eye, he sees Mary and Evelyn exchange hellos. Mary’s hand lingers on Evelyn’s arm—just a moment too long, a beat past propriety. Evelyn doesn’t flinch. She tilts her head, lips curved, her eyes holding Mary’s like there’s something only the two of them understand.
Stede swallows, smile tightening.
"Now, you were saying—" he prompts, though his mind is elsewhere.
Across the room, Izzy stands like a shadow at the edge of the gathering, posture taut, gaze cutting through the crowd. It finds Stede again—sharp, unrelenting. Stede feels it low in his belly, raw and dangerous, the kind of wanting that makes his grip on the glass at his side tremble.
Mr. Higgins drones on about a promising bay colt. Mary laughs softly at something Evelyn says. Izzy’s eyes don’t leave his. Stede takes a slow breath and wonders when exactly, in the midst of his own life, he forgot how to breathe.
Izzy licks his lips, saying something to the person next to him, eyes still fixed on Stede. His gaze trails down, lingering. Heat crawls up Stede's neck as Izzy drags his teeth across his lower lip. Stede tightens his grip, too tight. The stem snaps clean in his hand with a sickening little crack.
The sound cuts through the chatter like a musket shot. For a breath, the party stills. Then gasps, a shriek, the splash of wine dark against the carpet.
"Goodness, how clumsy of me," Stede blurts, trying for lightness as blood wells bright across his palm.
Mary is there instantly, steady and smiling. "It’s nothing at all, please—carry on." She presses a napkin deftly into his hand, her other arm sliding through his as if guiding him to a dance. Her voice is honey over steel. "If you’ll excuse us."
The crowd parts. Whispers rise and fall around them, but Mary’s smile never falters. She leads him out, brisk and quiet, toward the hall.
They pass close to Izzy. He leans just enough to murmur, voice low and sharp: "All that over a look, Bonnet? Pathetic."
Stede’s cheeks burn hotter than the blood dripping between his fingers. Mary’s grip tightens on his arm; she doesn’t look at Izzy, doesn’t break stride.
The bathroom is mercifully empty. Mary shuts the door with a firm click, turns the lock, and only then exhales.
"Let me see," she says, taking his hand. Her thumb is gentle as she pries the glass from his palm. Crimson blooms across the white napkin, stark and obscene.
Stede swallows hard, gaze fixed on the basin. "It’s nothing. Truly. A foolish slip."
Mary arches a brow, reaching for the jug of water. "Yes. And I suppose the look you were giving Mr. Hands was a foolish slip as well."
Mary dabs at his hand, efficient as ever, though her lips are pressed in a thin line. Stede can feel her analysing his reaction even though her eyes are fixed on the wound.
He clears his throat. "If we’re cataloguing foolish slips, Mary… I daresay you’ve been looking at Evelyn rather intently yourself."
Her hand stills. Their eyes meet, both of them caught. For a heartbeat it feels dangerous, like they’re standing side by side at the edge of a cliff.
And then Mary snorts. Just once, quick and sharp, like she didn’t mean to. Stede blinks at her, startled—and then he’s laughing too, a helpless, breathless sound that bursts out of him before he can stop it.
They clutch each other, shoulders shaking, muffled by the tiled walls, laughter spilling over the absurdity of it all. Two respectable Bonnet spouses, gay as geese, locked in a church bathroom with blood on the towels.
"Impossible," Mary wheezes, still laughing.
"Entirely," Stede agrees, grinning through the sting in his palm.
For a moment, it doesn’t feel quite so lonely.
Their laughter peters out, leaving them breathless, leaning against one another like children caught whispering in church.
Mary shakes her head, still smiling. "I’ve thought about her for years," she admits quietly. "Evelyn. The way she walks into a room and takes it over without even trying. The way her laugh carries. I’ve… imagined things. But she’s married. And I am too. So it all goes into a box, neat and tidy, where no one can see."
She presses a fresh cloth into Stede’s hand, her touch steady now, her eyes softer than he’s seen in a long time.
"I know that box," Stede admits, quietly. "Izzy's in there. Oh, he makes me feel a lot of things I shouldn’t feel. But mostly, he makes me angry."
Mary meets his gaze, her voice quiet and kind. "If I know you at all, you care for him. You care, Stede."
"I do." The truth of it settles low in his belly. "I care far too much about things I can never have."
Mary winds the cloth snug around his hand, neat and practiced, and for a moment they both just breathe.
"Well, maybe that’s the trick," she says finally, voice low. "Not pretending we don’t want. But finding a way to live with it. Together."
Stede blinks at her, startled. "You mean—?"
"A game," she says, a sly curve tugging at her mouth. "Close your eyes. Pretend. Let yourself have what you can’t have, just for a little while." She leans closer, her breath warm against his ear. "I could imagine Evelyn. You—well. You’re nearly tall enough."
Heat rushes to Stede’s face. He laughs, nervous and giddy. "And I could…" His gaze flicks down her throat, lingering as he swallows. "I could imagine Izzy."
Mary’s smile deepens, not unkind. "And we can both stop being martyrs for a night."
The cloth slips from her fingers. His bandaged hand finds her waist, tentative at first, then bolder as she presses closer. The marble counter is cold at her back, her body warm against him, and it’s strange—strange how easy it feels to fall into this new honesty with her.
She closes her eyes, murmuring, "Evelyn," as she pulls him down into a kiss. It’s soft, then sharper, her nails grazing his neck. Stede breathes against her mouth, dizzy with want, and when he lets his own eyes flutter shut, it isn’t Mary he sees. It’s Izzy, scowling and fierce, teeth bared against the press of his lips.
The fantasy bleeds between them, unspoken but understood. His hand drifts lower, hers fists in his waistcoat, and for the first time in years, Stede feels like he isn’t pretending. Not denying. Not ashamed. Just wanting.
When they break apart, flushed and panting, Mary laughs again, softer this time. "See? Not so impossible after all."
Stede can still feel the scrape of Izzy's beard against his neck, the hard press of his body as he bites back a moan. He blinks and swallows, voice a little rough. "Quite."