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The Bridgerton estate was uncharacteristically quiet.
Too quiet.
Which could only mean two things: Papa Seb and Dada Mark were off to another date and Charles and Carlos are being scandalously in love again somewhere in the south wing, and Lewis—long-suffering, emotionally constipated Lewis—was once again left to babysit the most powerful creature in the household.
“Ben,” Lewis sighed, glancing down at the small monarch seated on his royal throne (a cushioned high chair with velvet bows), “if you throw mashed peas on my shirt one more time, I swear I will—”
Ben tugged at Lewis’s braids with a cherubic squeal.
Lewis sighed again. Dramatically, this time. “Right. You win. The peas live.”
He plopped another spoonful into Ben’s mouth and let his gaze wander across the grand dining room. The sun filtered in golden stripes through the tall windows, lighting up the wall lined with portraits.
Wedding portraits.
Everywhere.
To his left: Carlos Bridgerton, glowing and slightly smug, with the famously stoic Lord Charles Leclerc smiling(shocking right?) beside him, holding hands like they were carved from marble and devotion.
Next to them: Max Verstappen, the Duke of Discipline, gazing down with uncharacteristic softness at his radiant husband Daniel, who had refused to wear anything less than a champagne-gold waistcoat and a matching crown of wildflowers.
Then came Lando, the chaos incarnate, with his equally chaotic-husband Oscar Piastri, who still hadn’t quite recovered from the elopement-then-legal-wedding situation but smiled like he would do it again anyway.
And then, of course, the most recent addition: Alex Bridgerton with Lord George Russell, practically glowing in pastels and lace, having apparently fallen in love through letters like it was a Shakespearean comedy.
At the end of the gallery stood the oldest and most enduring: Lord Sebastian and Lord Mark Bridgerton, captured in oil paints looking fondly at one another, hands clasped, champagne flutes raised. Lewis’s Dada had insisted on wearing deep plum velvet; Papa Seb had refused to wear anything but green.
And that was all of them.
All his brothers. Married. Blissful. In love.
All except him.
And Kimi. But Kimi had been staring into the distance smiling lately. Definitely in love. Just not talking about it. Suspicious, but irrelevant.
So that just left Lewis.
Alone. Wedding portrait-less. The only Bridgerton who didn’t get a custom colour palette or an embarrassing romantic speech printed in Lady Whistledown’s column.
And maybe once, long ago, he wouldn’t have minded.
Once, there was a time when Lewis had been that kind of boy too—young, hopeless, seeing the world through rose-coloured spectacles.
Love had felt like a promise. A melody. A spark.
But that was before he came along.
That blonde, soft-spoken idiot with his sunshine smile and words like poetry dipped in honey. Nico Rosberg. Viscount of vanishing acts. The boy who stole Lewis’s heart and then vanished one spring morning with nothing but a note and a pressed violet.
And just like that Lewis had stopped believing in love.
In the aftermath, he had done what any self-respecting Bridgerton would do:
- Repressed all emotions.
- Took up aggressive fencing.
- Threw himself into estate work and responsibility like his soul depended on it.
No time for longing. No room for softness. Just duty and discipline and muttered curse words whenever someone with flaxen hair passed by at the market.
He was pulled from his melancholy spiral by another tug at his braids.
Ben was looking up at him with the unimpressed scowl of a Bridgerton baby who had not been fed for at least three seconds.
“Demanding little duke,” Lewis muttered fondly and offered another spoonful.
Ben opened his mouth like a king accepting tribute.
Lewis chuckled. Softly. Because even if he didn’t have a wedding portrait or a great love story—or, honestly, even a social life—he did have his family. His chaos.
He looked back at the portraits. For a moment, his heart ached.
Then, with a shrug, Lewis whispered, “Love is overrated anyway.”
Ben promptly threw mashed peas at his face.
….
But love?
Love had other plans.
……
It was a calm morning.
Too calm, in fact, which in a Bridgerton household meant disaster was imminent.
Lewis Bridgerton sat at the writing desk in the sunlit parlour, leafing through estate documents with the kind of precision only someone repressing monumental emotional damage could achieve. Ben sat nearby in a bassinet, chewing on a lace napkin, occasionally glancing at his uncle with the innocent eyes of someone who did not yet know what heartbreak was.
On the settee, Daniel Bridgerton—curled up like a content cat—let out a delighted little gasp as he flipped the crisp sheets of the latest Lord Whistledown’s Society Papers.
“Ohoho, scandal!” he grinned, eyes skimming rapidly. “Someone fell into the Punch bowl again at the Lennox soirée—Alex, was that you?”
“Bold of you to assume I was sober enough to fall,” Alex called from the hallway.
Daniel cackled and continued reading. “Let’s see, let’s see… Lando and Oscar spotted making out under the botanical exhibit—God,—”
“I’m ignoring all of you,” Lewis said flatly without looking up.
“Ah, here we are…” Daniel straightened, voice shifting into a dramatic lilt. “Now for today’s pièce de résistance—‘The Eligible Viscount Roserberg Returns.’”
Silence.
Every. Single. Bridgerton. Looked. Up.
Carlos nearly dropped a spoonful of mashed banana into Ben’s hair. Kimi slowly turned from the window with an expression of ancient knowledge. Alex's teacup paused mid-air. Even Ben paused his noble gnawing.
Daniel read aloud with relish. “After four years abroad, the charming and once-scandalous Viscount Nico Rosberg returns to London. Rumour has it he is here to finalise family inheritance... or perhaps rekindle old flames. A romantic spring awaits, dear readers.”
Everyone turned to Lewis.
Lewis, who was sitting very still, like a man who had just seen a ghost. His pen hovered above parchment. His eyes locked on the space before him, blank.
A single second of silence.
Then—
Lewis stood. With such calm, eerie dignity that even the baby stopped chewing.
“I have to check the east wing irrigation contracts,” he said flatly.
“But that’s not even—” Carlos began.
Lewis had already left.
Slammed the door, straight posture, jaw tight.
The silence left behind was deafening.
Daniel blinked. “...Well, that didn’t scream unresolved heartbreak at all.”
Ben gurgled in agreement.
Alex sipped his tea. “I give him three days before he either kisses Nico in a storm or tries to stab him with a quill.”
Kimi raised an eyebrow. “Or both.”
Carlos handed Ben a banana slice and sighed. “Why is no one in this family normal?”
Ben took the banana and threw it at Daniel.
Daniel: “Because we are Bridgertons.”
Lewis, down the corridor, walked briskly, eyes stormy, heart cracking just a little more than he cared to admit.
Because Nico Rosberg was back.
And Lewis Bridgerton had never truly recovered.
…..
It was a fine spring day—sun spilling golden across Grosvenor Square, the scent of fresh flowers in the air, and Lewis Bridgerton doing what he did best these days: scowling.
With baby Ben perched on one arm like a royal sceptre of judgment, Lewis marched through the square on what he claimed was “an air-cleansing walk” and not, in fact, a tactical retreat from his family's pitying glances and pointed whispers.
Every blonde man he passed received a daggered glare so potent it could curdle milk. One hapless duke actually flinched and dropped his cravat.
Ben, observing intently from his uncle’s hip, blinked once.
Then narrowed his eyes.
Exactly like Lewis.
Two Bridgertons, one shared vendetta. The ladies swooned.
“Oh heavens, look at him! He’s already glaring like a tiny duke!” one society matron gushed.
“Such expressive brows,” another cooed. “Truly a Bridgerton heir.”
Ben accepted the admiration like a prince, clutching Lewis’s lapel and bestowing upon the crowd his new signature mini-glare. Lewis muttered approvingly, “Good lad. Never trust blondes. They’re chaos in expensive boots.”
Ben solemnly nodded. As if he understood. As if he’d seen some things in his eleven months of life.
And then the universe—wicked as ever—tested that loyalty.
Because as Lewis rounded the corner near Mayfair’s favourite bakery, he saw him.
Nico Rosberg.
Tall. Blond. Perfectly pressed cravat and hair that had no business looking that good in natural light. The devil incarnate, casually reaching for a raspberry tart.
Their eyes met.
Nico froze mid-motion, tart halfway to a plate. His smile was hesitant, laced with unspoken apologies, history, regret.
“Lewis,” Nico said gently. “You look—”
Lewis turned on his heel with military precision.
He would not do this. He would not fall into that stupidly charming voice, those warm eyes, or those strong, stupid hands that had once cupped his cheek and promised—
“SWEETS!” Ben suddenly yelled, pointing both hands dramatically at the bakery window.
Lewis stopped mid-stride, jaw locked.
Ben pointed again. “Sweeeeets!!”
A pause.
Then with all the reluctant dignity of a man losing a duel to a baby, Lewis slowly turned back, sighed, and walked back into the bakery—past Nico, eyes front.
Nico didn’t speak.
He simply stepped aside, gave a small, understanding nod, and the baker placed two extra pastries into a bag without being asked. Nico passed it to Ben.
Lewis didn’t say thank you.
Ben did. “Dankoo!” he chirped sweetly, clutching the paper bag with glee.
Nico’s voice was soft, nearly lost beneath the gentle chime of the bakery’s bell.
“Your son,” he said, with a smile that was somehow both wistful and brave, “is beautiful.”
Lewis blinked.
And then—he spoke too fast. Too sharply. Too pointedly.
“Oh—he’s not my son, I am not married.” Lewis said, clutching Ben a little closer. “He’s my nephew. Carlos’s son. With Charles. Obviously.”
It wasn’t obvious. No one had asked. Nico hadn’t even implied it.
But still—there it was.
Silence.
And in that brief pause, Nico’s smile shifted, so subtle it could’ve been missed. It softened. It eased into something… lighter.
And his eyes—
His eyes filled with relief.
Lewis didn’t know why that unsettled him more than anything else Nico had done so far.
Didn’t know why it made his chest twist in that maddening way, or why his grip on Ben tightened just a bit.
He really didn’t know why he felt the sudden, absurd urge to flee or stay forever.
Ben, ever the peacekeeper, offered Nico the last bite of his lemon tart—then ate it himself.
And Nico laughed. Quiet, honest, unguarded.
Lewis didn’t laugh.
But he didn’t walk away either.
….
And as they walked out, Ben looked over Lewis’s shoulder…
…and waved at Nico.
Betrayal.
Utter, sugary betrayal.
Lewis glanced at him. “You waved at the enemy.”
Ben offered no remorse. Just stuffed a tart into his face and glared at a blonde passing poodle.
Lewis sighed. “I’ll forgive you. But you’re on thin ice, young man.”
Ben gave a crumb-covered nod.
Nico, from the doorway, watched them go.
And smiled.
…….
It happened on the old Bridgerton terrace. Of course it did.
The place where Lewis used to read poetry aloud to a grinning Nico, where they’d once slow danced under the stars with only the cicadas and Lewis’s overexcited younger brothers as witnesses. Where Nico had whispered promises and Lewis had believed—because back then, believing had been easy.
Now, Lewis stood alone. Or so he thought.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
He didn’t need to turn. He knew.
"You're following me now?" Lewis bit out, his back still turned.
“I had to talk to you.” Nico’s voice, gentle. Tense. “I’ve been trying—”
“No. What you did was disappear. You vanished.”
Lewis turned, expression taut with fury. “You left a note, Nico. A note and a pressed violet. Like that was supposed to be enough."
“I didn’t have a choice,” Nico shot back, stepping forward, tone raising. “I was going to lose everything—my title, my estate—everything my father built if I chose you!”
“I would’ve chosen you!” Lewis shouted, voice cracking. “I did choose you! And you—you ran like a coward!”
“I was scared!” Nico finally exploded. “You don’t understand what it was like—what they threatened. They told me I’d be nothing!”
“You already were everything to me.”
The words hit hard. Lewis didn’t even mean to say them. It just burst out of him, raw and unguarded.
Silence stretched between them like a wound.
Lewis folded his arms, fighting the sting in his eyes. “What changed now? Why are you back? Why should I believe you won’t run again the second things get hard?”
Nico looked like he’d been punched in the gut.
“I don’t know,” he said, voice quiet. “I don’t know if I can promise you the world, Lewis. But I can promise I won’t stop trying.”
And Lewis hated how that promise — that tiny, flawed, pathetic promise — almost made him want to believe again.
Almost.
…..
Years ago…(Flashback)
It was the summer where the sky never seemed to run out of blue.
Lewis Bridgerton, barely eighteen, with his braids undone and his shirt perpetually half-tucked, was all sharp wit and hidden softness. He had been sent to the countryside for “rest and restoration” after overexerting himself in London’s social calendar—though in truth, everyone knew it was because he’d made a Viscount cry at a ball with nothing but his words.
Nico Rosberg, son of a well-known northern nobleman, was already there, a guest of some relative who didn’t pay him much mind. He was golden in every way—sun-kissed hair, easy charm, a smile like stolen sunlight, and a laugh that sounded like freedom.
They met at a picnic gone wrong—Lewis was lost in the woods with his ridiculous lace parasol, muttering furiously, when Nico rode past on horseback, paused, and said:
“You look like an extremely fashionable ghost.”
Lewis had never fallen faster in his life.
…..
Days were spent like this:
Running down wildflower-filled hills. Stealing fruits from the orchard and blaming the sheep. Reading under trees, Lewis’ head in Nico’s lap, both pretending they didn’t hear the gossiping birds.
Nico once taught Lewis how to ride a horse sidesaddle, and they both fell into a pond.
Lewis tried to teach Nico how to fence, but Nico only used the blade to dramatically point out clouds that looked like animals.
Once, they danced barefoot on the stone path behind the manor, to no music at all. Lewis swore he’d never felt more alive.
….
Nights were even softer.
They’d sneak out and lie under the stars, side by side, whispering dreams.
“I want a house,” Nico said once, voice low, “with too many windows. So I never miss the sun.”
“I want a library,” Lewis replied. “With a ladder. And someone who brings me tea without asking.”
“Would you live with me?” Nico asked, fingers brushing against Lewis’s.
Lewis laughed, turning his head toward him. “Only if you bring the tea.”
And then, there was their first kiss—by the lake, after Nico said something stupid about Lewis being like a stormcloud: dark, dramatic, and impossible to look away from.
Lewis rolled his eyes, kissed him to shut him up, and Nico never complained about storms again.
….
But summer never stays.
One morning, Lewis woke up to a letter, a pressed violet, and nothing else.
Nico was gone.
No explanation.
No goodbyes.
Just a heartbreak pressed in a flower.
And now… now that stormcloud was back. And Lewis wasn’t sure if he wanted to strike lightning or fall into the rain again.
……
And Nico Rosberg, Viscount of That Bad Decision, found himself in quite the predicament.
It wasn’t Lewis himself that proved difficult to access — no, Lewis was often seen strolling the estate gardens, baby Ben on his hip, glaring poetically at clouds.
It was the five-headed, chaotic, frighteningly loyal monster known as: The Younger Bridgertons.
Day One: The Carlos Encounter
Nico tried to be subtle. He brought flowers. Peonies, Lewis’s favorite.
“Hey,” he greeted casually as he stepped through the Bridgerton gates. “Is Lewis—”
Carlos appeared like a shadow in a waistcoat, Ben on one arm and a fencing sword in the other.
“Lewis isn’t receiving visitors,” he said with a smile that looked more like a threat. Ben threw a toy at Nico. It hit him in the eye.
“Did…did the baby just aim for me?”
“He’s a Bridgerton,” Carlos said simply. “And he remembers.”
Day Three: The Daniel Incident
Nico tried the side entrance this time. Smart. Strategic.
Only to be tackled into a bush by a blur in powder blue breeches.
“You slippery snake!” Daniel growled, holding a fencing foil in one hand and a cravat in the other like a noose. “You think you can just waltz back in after vanishing like a badly written lover in a gothic novel?!”
“Daniel, I—”
“Lewis read sonnets about you, you weasel! Sonnets!”
Day Five: The Lando Ambush
Nico tried sending a letter. A poem, even.
But it mysteriously returned to him with the word “NOPE” scribbled in sparkly ink and biscuit crumbs stuck to the corner.
That afternoon, Lando popped up behind him while Nico was buying pastries near the town square.
“You broke him, you know,” Lando said cheerfully, stealing a tart from Nico’s box. “He didn’t wear anything but grey for months. I think he listens to tragic violin pieces now.”
“I deserve that,” Nico mumbled.
“Damn right,” Lando said.
Day Seven: The Kimi Encounter
Silence.
Just silence.
Kimi stared at him over a teacup for ten minutes straight. Nico broke into a sweat.
Then sipped his tea like a cryptid and vanished into the hedges.
Day Ten: The Alex Situation
Alex simply gasped upon seeing Nico. Gasped like a duchess fainting on a fainting couch. Grasped his pearls (read: macarons). Dragged Nico inside the Bridgerton drawing room.
“Sit,” Alex ordered. “Explain yourself. Make it good. I need to know if you’re worth Lewis reconsidering your greasy face.”
“I—greasy?!”
“You hurt my brother,” Alex sniffed, dramatically draping himself on a sofa. “Now I must protect him with sass and sequins.”
“…You’re not even wearing sequins.”
“I could be.”
By the end of the week, Nico had survived five interrogations, a bush tackle, a cupcake thrown directly at his pride, and was only marginally close to earning one conversation with Lewis.
But he was willing to do it all again.
Because Lewis Bridgerton was worth every ridiculous brother-shaped barricade.
……
The kiss happened in the stables. Because of course it did. Romance was always inconvenient, and heartbreak always arrived where horses smelled most pungently of betrayal.
Lewis hadn’t meant for it to happen. He was just trying to check on Ben’s favourite pony — not run into him. Not again.
But there Nico was. Waiting. Eyes soft, posture nervous, voice barely above a whisper as he murmured, “I never stopped loving you.”
And before Lewis could stop himself — before his logic could intervene, before his pride could claw its way forward — he kissed him.
A kiss like every repressed ache and every sleepless night woven into one breathless moment.
It was tender. Desperate. Lingering.
And then—
Lewis pulled away.
His hands trembled as he backed up, blinking fast, eyes swimming with tears that threatened to spill.
“No,” he said, voice cracking. “No, Nico, don’t do this.”
“Lewis—”
“You don’t get to come back and be everything I wanted then and everything I still want now, not when I’ve spent years learning how to breathe without you.”
Nico stepped forward instinctively. “But we could try—”
“I can’t try,” Lewis whispered. “Because if you leave again, I won’t survive it. I barely did the first time.”
And with that, Lewis turned on his heel and walked away, one arm swiping at his eyes, the other hugging himself like it was the only thing holding him together.
And Nico?
Nico stood there, alone in the quiet of the stable, the taste of a kiss on his lips and the bitter sting of regret blooming in his chest — knowing that for all his rehearsed apologies and desperate pleas, he had finally witnessed the true cost of his silence.
And it was Lewis. Always had been. Always would be.
And this time, he would have to fight harder than ever to prove he wouldn’t walk away again.
…..
The moment the words left Lewis Bridgerton’s mouth, they echoed like a declaration of war across the family estate.
“I’m ready to see suitors again.”
Dead silence. Carlos dropped Ben’s teether. Daniel let out an audible gasp. Lando choked on his tea. Even Alex blinked rapidly like his monocle had fogged up from pure scandal. Papa Seb and Dada Mark, sitting on the settee nearby, exchanged slow, alarmed looks.
“You’re what?” asked Seb, just to be sure he'd heard correctly.
“I’m ready,” Lewis said firmly, chin up, eyes blazing. “To move on. Clearly some people don’t have the courage to stay. So why shouldn’t I?”
Daniel leaned forward slowly. “Because you’re doing that thing where you self-destruct in a controlled, elegant fashion. Again.”
“I am not,” Lewis snapped, crossing his arms. “I’m simply open to new prospects.”
Carlos muttered, “This is a bad idea,” before Ben accidentally slapped him in the eye with a spoon. Even the baby was distressed.
Regardless, the ton was alerted.
Whistledown wrote a cheeky line about Lewis Bridgerton being back “on the market.” And soon enough, suitors lined up like it was Bridgerton Sample Sale Season.
The first one was Lord Edmund Fitzham. Handsome, rich, terribly dull.
Lewis tried. He really did. He smiled, made polite conversation, nodded when appropriate. But all he could see was Nico’s smirk when he got flustered. All he could hear was Nico’s voice whispering "liebling" like it was the only word that ever mattered.
He excused himself early.
The next suitor was worse. A poet, or perhaps a very dramatic liar. Lewis was unsure.
Meanwhile—
Nico Rosberg, Viscount of Petty & Regret, was sure.
He sabotaged every suitor in the most creative ways.
Lord Fitzham’s horse mysteriously developed a limp.
Lord Sommersby got a scandalous bouquet from a secret "lover."
That poet? Found dramatically reciting lines of love — to the wrong Bridgerton brother. (Kimi, who didn't care. At all.)
Back at the Bridgerton manor:
“I feel like I’m cursed,” Lewis muttered, sipping wine. “None of these men seem right.”
Daniel, chewing on an apple: “Maybe you want someone else.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “Someone with blond hair and unresolved feelings?”
Carlos added, “Someone who was seen hiding behind a hedge at Fitzham’s garden party?”
Even Ben gave Lewis a knowing look and threw his spoon at the door, as if expecting Nico to burst in.
But Lewis shook his head. “I just want to move on.”
Except—every man he met had the wrong eyes, the wrong smile, the wrong hands. Because they weren’t Nico. And even when he wanted to forget him, Nico found ways to linger—in everything.
And perhaps, just perhaps, that meant Lewis wasn’t ready to move on at all. Not yet. Not if love—real, reckless, aching love—still had a chance to knock again.
…..
Of course, what are meddlesome Bridgerton siblings for, if not to fix the very heartbreak they swore to defend their brother from?
It started, as most Bridgerton schemes do, with Daniel casually announcing over breakfast:
“I think we should help Nico.”
Kimi, still emotionally tormented and aggressively buttering toast like it insulted him in a past life, choked. “What?”
Carlos blinked. “We’re not helping anyone who made our Lewis cry.”
“Yes, but also…” Lando drawled, twirling a spoon. “Lewis hasn’t smiled properly since 18-whatever when Nico ghosted him with a flower and a note.”
“Yeah” added Alex.
Daniel finally spoke: “He dreams in German.”
The table went silent.
“He mumbled ‘Ich liebe dich, idiot’ in his sleep last week,” Alex pointed out.
“I thought he was possessed,” Lando added helpfully.
Papa Seb, walking in with Dada Mark at that very moment, paused and sighed. “If he’s still haunting his heart, let the ghost in properly this time.”
And so, just like that, the family declared a mission: “Deliver Nico to Lewis.”
(A plan Lewis knew absolutely nothing about.)
…..
It began with small things.
Daniel started inviting Nico to family functions—“accidentally.”
Carlos gave him baby Ben duty—“just for bonding.”
Lando staged a fencing demonstration—where Nico happened to "randomly" show up as a spectator.
Alex? Alex left “anonymous” love notes in Lewis’s study that definitely weren’t from Nico, but got Lewis thinking about romance again.
One day, Nico was caught mid-swoon outside the Bridgerton estate. Kimi opened the door, looked him up and down, and simply said, “Don’t mess it up this time,” before stepping aside.
….
The final push came when Lewis was out on a walk, grumbling to himself about everything and nothing, when he heard a familiar voice call out behind him.
“Lewis.”
He turned. Nico stood there, wind-tossed hair, flowers in hand (of course), and those stupid blue eyes that haunted every waking thought.
Before Lewis could storm off, five heads popped out from behind a hedge—Daniel, Carlos, Lando, Alex, and Kimi—watching.
“Go on,” Daniel hissed. “Make him cry happy tears!”
“We spent a lot of time emotionally manipulating this moment,” Alex whispered dramatically.
Ben threw a flower from Carlos’s arms like a confetti bomb.
Lewis rolled his eyes skyward, but...he didn’t leave. He stood. He waited.
Nico stepped forward, voice trembling. “I never stopped loving you. I was an idiot. I thought I needed a title, but it turns out I only needed you.”
Lewis looked at him, long and slow. Then at his very obvious, shamelessly hiding siblings.
He sighed. “Fine. But you owe me ten years of groveling.”
From the hedge, a muffled cheer.
And that was the beginning… again.