The morning after, Monique returned to the orphanage, and true to her expectations, Riley was already there.
The sun had barely risen above the rooftops, its pale light spilling across the worn courtyard and bathing the orphanage in a quiet, almost fragile calm.
Children’s laughter had yet to fill the air, and the place felt montarily suspended between night and day.
In the middle of it all stood Riley, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled, already deep into work as if rest were a luxury he rarely allowed himself.
"Ohhh... you’re here. Good morning, Monique," Riley said casually when he noticed her, sparing only a brief glance before turning back to the wall in front of him.
The days he had spent with the duchess had long since erased the stiff formalities that once defined their interactions.
Now, he spoke to her as he would to anyone else who had beco a familiar presence in his life.
He lifted his hamr and drove a nail into a loose plank, the dull thud echoing softly.
"Get so coffee or tea inside," he added. "I made eggs too. They should still be warm."
Monique nodded instinctively, but her feet did not move. Instead, she remained standing at the edge of the courtyard, her hands folded neatly before her.
Her eyes followed Riley without restraint, tracing the easy strength in his movents—the way his shoulders shifted, the faint sheen of sweat already forming despite the cool morning air.
There was sothing unsettling about how natural he looked here, as if this place had been built around him rather than the other way around.
The hamr rose and fell.
One nail. Then another.
Ti passed quietly. Five minutes, perhaps more.
Riley eventually felt it—the unmistakable weight of being watched.
His movents slowed, and he stopped mid-swing.
Straightening, he turned toward her, eyes narrowing slightly as they t hers.
"What?" he asked, tone wary but not unkind. "You’ve been staring at for a while now."
He set the hamr aside and crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall he had been fixing.
"And I’ve got a feeling," he continued, exhaling softly, "that whatever you’re about to say is sothing I’m not going to like."
Monique’s lips pressed together for a brief mont.
The calm of the morning suddenly felt deceptive, as if the silence itself were bracing for what was to co.
A few slow, asured breaths passed before Monique finally opened her lips.
For a mont, she seed to be weighing the consequences of every word that might follow—consequences that could ripple far beyond the quiet walls of the orphanage.
"What would you say," she asked at last, her voice steady and unembellished, "to having a duchess as your wife?"
The words landed heavier than any hamr strike.
Riley blinked, then barked out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as if she had just told a particularly absurd joke.
"I’d say you must be losing your mind if you’re even entertaining that thought," he replied, amusent lacing his tone. "? Husband material for a duchess? That’s a good one."
He shook his head, still smiling, as if humor alone could dismiss the idea.
"You deserve soone polished. Soone raised for courtrooms and ballrooms. Not a man who spends his mornings hamring walls at an orphanage."
But the smile faltered when he realized she hadn’t joined his laughter.
Monique stood perfectly still, her posture straight, her expression unwavering.
There was no embarrassnt in her eyes. No hesitation. Only intent.
Riley’s grin slowly faded.
"...You’re serious," he said, the words leaving him more softly than he intended.
The air between them shifted.
He straightened, exhaling through his nose, and after a brief pause, his familiar irreverence returned—this ti sharper, more deliberate, like a shield he was raising.
"Well, well, well," Riley said with a crooked smile. "I must admit—you have excellent taste. I am an extrely handso man, after all." He gestured vaguely to himself. "It’s hardly shocking that a duchess would fall victim to my irresistible charm."
He paced a step to the side, eyes never leaving hers.
"But if you’re truly insisting," he continued, his tone turning almost theatrical, "then I suppose I should be honest. I’d have a few conditions before accepting such a... tempting proposal."
He raised a finger.
"First," Riley said plainly, the humor thinning, "you should already know this about . I’m a player. I don’t make promises I can’t keep—and I won’t pretend to be faithful in the way nobility expects. There will be other won."
He watched her closely, searching for even the slightest crack in her resolve.
There was none.
He raised a second finger, slower this ti.
"Second," he went on, "I won’t be anyone’s decorative husband. I won’t bow my head in court or play the obedient consort while others decide my worth. If I marry, it’s on my terms."
Riley paused, then let out a quiet chuckle.
"Frankly, most duchesses would have slapped by now."
Still, Monique did not move.
Her calm unsettled him more than anger ever could.
Riley lowered his hand, studying her as if seeing her for the first ti.
"...You’re really not backing out," he said quietly. It was no longer a joke. "Not after hearing all that."
The morning breeze drifted through the courtyard, rustling the leaves and carrying with it the faint sounds of the city waking beyond the walls.
In that fragile silence, Riley felt an unfamiliar pressure settle in his chest—sothing dangerously close to being taken seriously.
"Backing out was never part of my upbringing," Monique said softly. There was no arrogance in her tone—only certainty.
"What I want, I get." Her gaze lifted to et his, unwavering. "And I want you, my handso butcher."
The words left no room for doubt.
Before Riley could gather a response—before humor or deflection could save him—Monique stepped forward.
Her hands clenched briefly at his shirt as if bracing herself, and then she rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.
"Hm..."
It was her first kiss, and it showed.
Her lips were tentative, her movents uncertain, as though she were testing fragile ground.
She hesitated, then tried again, slower this ti, breath trembling against his mouth.
For a heartbeat, Riley remained still, surprised by the raw sincerity behind the gesture.
Then he kissed her back.
Not rushed. Not rough. Just enough pressure to guide her, to show her what she did not yet know.
A soft, involuntary sound escaped Monique’s lips, a quiet moan that made her cheeks warm.
She clutched at him more tightly, caught between nervousness and sothing far more dangerous—want.
Riley’s hand ca up to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing lightly along her cheek as if reassuring her that she was doing nothing wrong.
When he finally pulled back, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling.
"We’re being watched," he murmured.
"I don’t care," she replied without hesitation.
That was answer enough.
He took her hand and led her toward his room within the orphanage.
As they passed through the halls, a few lingering eyes caught sight of them—startled looks, whispered gasps—but Riley ignored it all.
This place obeyed rules far more rigid than the worlds he had once known.
There were no miracles here to erase witnesses or bend consequences.
Inside his room, the door closed with a soft click.
Monique stood still for a mont, suddenly keenly aware of how small the space felt, how quiet.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. When Riley stepped closer, she instinctively closed her eyes, breath hitching as his hands settled at her waist—warm, steady, grounding.
He guided her backward until the bed brushed against her knees.
A mont later, she felt the mattress beneath her as he eased her down, careful, as if afraid of breaking sothing precious.
Riley followed, bracing one arm beside her, looking down at her face—at the tension in her expression, the resolve still burning behind her uncertainty.
"Monique," he said quietly, giving her space, an opening to stop him if she wished.
She reached up instead, fingers curling into his sleeve, pulling him just a little closer.
That was her answer.
They kissed again, deeper this ti, and both of them knew—without needing to say it—that the morning would not remain innocent for long.
Riley’s hands road over Monique with unhurried confidence, learning her reactions, steadying her when her breath faltered.
Each touch drew a soft response from her, and soon she found herself responding in kind, fingers trembling as they traced unfamiliar lines and warmth.
Ti seed to blur.
One piece of clothing was set aside, then another, until the world narrowed to nothing but shared heat and quiet breaths.
When Monique finally lay back against the bed, she felt exposed yet unafraid, her heart racing as Riley joined her, no barriers left between them.
They paused then, just for a mont—eting each other’s gaze, taking in what words could not capture.
It was the first ti they had seen one another so completely, stripped of titles, walls, and pretense.
And neither of them was disappointed.
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