Beneath Her Ice

[Start of volume 4 "Fire Beneath the Frost"]

Three months into dating Eliza Darcy, Will had learned two things.

One: She never let anyone else make her coffee.Two: That was her way of saying I trust you. But only so far.

The scent of French roast drifted through his apartment as sunlight carved patterns on the hardwood floors. Will stood by the kitchen island in sweatpants and a half-buttoned shirt, watching Eliza navigate his cabinets like they were blueprints of her mood.

She was still wearing his Oxford from last night, hair unbrushed, face bare. And somehow, she looked more powerful now than in her sharpest boardroom armor.

"You're hoarding vanilla oat milk again," she said, voice low and unimpressed.

"It's called being prepared."

"For what? A dairy apocalypse?"

Will smiled over his mug. "You're just mad I didn't let you reorganize my fridge."

"I wasn't going to reorganize it," she lied easily. "I was going to optimize it."

He walked over and slid an arm around her waist. "You optimize everything."

Eliza tilted her face toward his. "And you still invited me to move in part-time. Whose fault is that?"

He kissed her. Softly. A punctuation mark on a sentence they'd both stopped questioning.

They didn't talk about what they were doing.Not in labels. Not in long-term projections.

But every Sunday morning like this—every half-shared drawer, every toothbrush left beside his—was a brick in something they were both pretending not to build.

And still, Will could feel it.

A home forming between them. Invisible, but undeniable.

That afternoon, they walked through Central Park in coats and silence, her gloved hand tucked into his. They were rarely affectionate in public—Eliza hated speculation, and Will respected the invisible moat she kept between herself and the world.

But sometimes, she'd give him moments. Small cracks in the ice.

Like now, when a little girl passed by clutching a stuffed narwhal and Eliza whispered, "I had one just like that."

He turned toward her, surprised.

"You had a narwhal phase?"

She shrugged. "I thought they were misunderstood. Weaponized kindness."

Will laughed softly. "That's… weirdly on-brand."

She smiled. Barely. But it was real.

Later, in a quiet corner of a bookstore they stumbled into to escape the wind, Will picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice and handed it to her with mock solemnity.

"Your origin story."

Eliza raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm Darcy?"

"I know you're Darcy."

"Then what does that make you?"

He grinned. "Apparently the idiot who keeps falling for her."

There was a pause. Her hand brushed his as she took the book.

And something passed between them—lighter than air, heavier than hope.

That night, as they lay tangled under the sheets in his apartment, Eliza spoke into the dark.

"This is the longest I've ever… stayed."

Will turned to face her. "Here, or with anyone?"

She hesitated. "Both."

He didn't fill the silence. He just reached for her hand beneath the covers, threading their fingers together.

And she didn't pull away.