Chapter Text
Anthony Bridgerton rode like a man trying to outrun his own thoughts.
Thunder’s hooves thundered against the softened earth, rhythm sharp and unforgiving, mud flecking up against Anthony’s boots and coat. The morning air burned his lungs, cold and wet, but he welcomed it. Pain, at least, was something he understood. Pain was simple. Pain was controllable.
His thoughts were not.
The estate accounts waited unanswered. A letter from Lady Danbury sat unopened on his desk. Violet had asked—quietly, carefully—whether he had slept at all the night before. Benedict had looked at him that morning with that knowing, infuriating expression that suggested he saw far more than Anthony ever admitted aloud.
So Anthony rode harder.
The path curved sharply through the trees, narrower here, slick from the previous night’s rain. Thunder hesitated—just for a moment—and Anthony urged him on without thinking, heels pressing instinctively into the horse’s sides.
That moment was all it took.
Thunder’s front hooves slid sideways. Anthony felt the loss of balance instantly, the sickening lurch beneath him, his body reacting before his mind caught up. He pulled the reins, tried to shift his weight, but the ground gave way completely.
The world tipped.
The impact was brutal.
Anthony hit the earth shoulder-first, the air ripped violently from his lungs as pain detonated through his chest. His body rolled, crushed beneath the weight of the fall, and something gave inside him—an unmistakable, internal crack that sent white-hot agony tearing through his ribs.
He couldn’t breathe.
For one horrifying second, there was nothing. No air. No sound. Just pain and the crushing awareness that his lungs refused to work.
Then his body gasped—shallow, broken—and the world rushed back in with dizzying force.
Thunder scrambled upright, snorting wildly, reins dragging loose. Anthony stayed where he was, cheek pressed into the damp earth, chest burning with every desperate breath.
He counted.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
The pain didn’t lessen. It deepened—sharp, insistent, radiating through his side and shoulder. His ribs screamed when he tried to move, a deep, grinding ache that made his vision blur.
Anthony lay there longer than he meant to.
Finally, stubbornness won.
He pushed himself upright with a strangled sound, hand immediately clamping to his side. The pressure helped—barely—but it kept him from gasping aloud. His shoulder protested viciously as he stood, legs unsteady beneath him.
He tested himself quickly. Arms moved—painfully, but they moved. Legs held. His head was clear. No blood. No obvious deformity.
You’re fine.
He repeated it like a mantra.
Getting back into the saddle was agony. The motion stretched his ribs, sent sparks dancing behind his eyes, but Anthony bit it back, refusing to make a sound. By the time he reached the stables, sweat clung to his spine despite the cold.
Someone asked if he was alright.
Anthony nodded.
And that was that.
⸻
By the time he reached Bridgerton House, the pain had settled into something deeper—less sharp, more dangerous. Each breath felt like dragging air through broken glass. His steps slowed despite himself, posture rigid as he crossed the threshold.
He ignored the ache in his shoulder. Ignored the way his chest tightened when he inhaled too deeply. Ignored the faint dizziness creeping at the edges of his vision.
He went straight to his study.
The door shut behind him with a decisive click, and Anthony leaned against it, eyes closing briefly as the pain surged unchecked. His hand pressed firmly to his ribs, fingers brushing swelling already forming beneath his shirt.
He forced his breathing shallow.
Deep breaths hurt too much.
Sitting was no better. Every shift of his weight sent another jolt of pain through his side. He tried to focus on correspondence—numbers, dates, signatures—but the letters blurred on the page. Sweat dampened his collar. His pulse thudded painfully in his ears.
Just bruised, he told himself.
Just winded.
Hours passed.
Dinner was announced. Anthony almost didn’t go.
But not showing would raise questions, and questions led to concern, and concern led to fuss—and Anthony Bridgerton did not require fussing over.
He changed slowly, movements careful, precise. Buttoning his waistcoat took longer than usual. He stopped halfway through, breath hitching sharply as pain flared again, radiating across his chest.
When he finally made it downstairs, the effort showed.
Daphne noticed first. She always did.
“You look unwell,” she said, gaze flicking over his face.
“I’m tired,” Anthony replied, lowering himself into his chair with forced nonchalance. The motion sent a sharp spike of pain through his ribs, and he clenched his jaw hard enough to ache.
Benedict watched him closely now, eyes narrowing slightly.
Anthony barely touched his food. Lifting his fork was effort enough. Chewing made his head swim. He felt too warm, skin flushed despite the chill of the room.
“You’re not eating,” Violet observed gently.
“I’m not hungry.”
Another lie.
Halfway through the meal, a sharp pain lanced through his chest when he shifted in his chair. His breath caught audibly this time—a short, involuntary sound he couldn’t suppress.
Benedict looked up sharply. “Anthony?”
“I said I’m fine,” Anthony snapped, irritation flaring hot and sudden. He regretted it immediately—but pride held firm.
Silence settled heavily over the table.
Anthony left early.
⸻
The stairs blurred before his eyes.
He had just reached the landing when the pain spiked—sudden, overwhelming—and his legs gave way. His hand slipped from the banister, his body sagging hard against it as a raw, broken sound tore from his throat.
“Anthony!”
Benedict was there instantly, arm wrapping around his waist to keep him upright. Daphne’s gasp echoed behind them.
“I—” Anthony tried to speak.
The darkness surged up violently, swallowing his vision whole.
⸻
He woke gasping.
Air scraped painfully through his lungs, shallow and insufficient. His chest burned. His side throbbed. Voices blurred around him, urgent and frightened.
“Careful—don’t move him—”
“His breathing—Violet, his breathing—”
“Anthony, darling—can you hear me?”
His mother’s voice cut through the fog, sharp with fear. Anthony tried to respond, but his throat felt thick, uncooperative. He managed a faint sound instead.
The doctor’s hands were firm but efficient, fingers probing his ribs, shoulder, chest. Anthony hissed, body tensing despite himself.
“Two cracked ribs,” the doctor said grimly. “Likely worsened by continued exertion. Severe bruising. There’s internal bleeding—small, but it could have been far worse had this gone on any longer.”
Violet’s grip tightened painfully around Anthony’s hand.
“You should have told us,” she whispered, voice breaking.
Anthony swallowed thickly. “Didn’t… want to worry you.”
Her eyes filled. “You are our worry.”
He closed his eyes then—not from pain, not from exhaustion—but because, for the first time that day, he didn’t have to pretend he was fine.
Anthony drifted in and out of consciousness through the night.
Pain anchored him to the world each time he surfaced — a deep, relentless ache wrapped around his ribs, sharp enough to steal his breath if he moved even an inch too far. Every inhale felt deliberate now, measured, shallow. The simple act of breathing had become work.
He hated it.
Hated the helplessness of it, the way his body betrayed him by refusing to cooperate. Hated the soft murmur of voices just beyond his awareness, the constant presence of hands adjusting pillows, checking his pulse, brushing sweat-damp hair back from his forehead.
He was not meant to be the one lying still.
At some point, he became aware of his mother sitting beside him. Violet’s hand was warm around his, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against his knuckles as if grounding herself more than him.
“You frightened us,” she whispered, thinking him asleep.
Anthony wanted to apologise. The word formed weakly in his mind but never quite reached his lips. His chest tightened instead — whether from pain or guilt, he couldn’t tell.
The night stretched long.
He woke again with a sharp gasp, chest seizing painfully as his body demanded more air than he could safely draw. Panic flared instantly, bright and overwhelming. His fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles whitening as he fought the instinct to breathe deeper.
“Easy,” came Benedict’s voice, low and steady. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”
Anthony’s eyes fluttered open. Benedict sat on the edge of the bed now, coat discarded, sleeves rolled as though he’d been there for hours. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes were rimmed red with exhaustion.
“Hurts,” Anthony managed hoarsely.
“I know,” Benedict said softly. “Doctor warned us it would.”
Anthony swallowed. His throat felt raw, scraped raw by too many shallow breaths. “I didn’t—” He stopped, breath hitching painfully.
Benedict leaned closer. “Don’t. Just breathe.”
The simple instruction nearly broke him.
Because breathing wasn’t simple anymore.
⸻
Morning light crept slowly into the room, pale and unwelcome. Anthony woke fully this time, awareness settling heavily over him like a weight. His body felt wrong — stiff, sore, aching in places he couldn’t quite catalogue yet. His ribs screamed dully beneath the bandages wrapped tight around his chest.
He tried to move.
Pain detonated.
A sharp, involuntary cry tore from him before he could stop it, his body tensing reflexively. Immediately, hands were on him — gentle but firm.
“No, no,” Violet soothed, appearing at his side. “Don’t move yet.”
Humiliation burned hot in his chest, right alongside the pain.
“I can—” he started.
“You cannot,” Violet said firmly, maternal steel threading through her voice. “And you will not try.”
Anthony clenched his jaw, staring up at the ceiling as frustration churned in his gut. He had ridden with broken bones before. Had fought through injuries far worse than this. Yet here he was, laid low by cracked ribs and his own stubbornness.
The doctor returned mid-morning.
“The bleeding has stabilised,” he said after a thorough examination. “But only because he is no longer moving.”
Anthony huffed weakly. “Encouraging.”
The doctor fixed him with a stern look. “If you move too much, if you refuse rest again, you could worsen the injury significantly. Punctured lung. Further bleeding. You were fortunate this time.”
Anthony turned his head slightly, meeting his mother’s gaze.
She was not smiling.
⸻
The days blurred together.
Anthony lost track of time somewhere between the constant ache and the dull haze of laudanum prescribed sparingly for the pain. He despised how it made his thoughts sluggish, how it dulled his edges — but without it, the pain clawed relentlessly at his focus, leaving him trembling and breathless.
Bathing was… mortifying.
Benedict insisted on helping when Anthony could no longer stand long enough on his own. Anthony protested weakly, face burning as Benedict carefully avoided bruises, movements respectful but unyielding.
“You’ve helped me through worse states,” Benedict said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. “Let me return the favour.”
Anthony swallowed hard, staring resolutely at the wall while his brother worked.
Sleep brought no real relief.
He dreamed of falling — the ground rushing up endlessly, the air tearing from his lungs over and over again. He woke gasping each time, chest aching fiercely, hands clawing at the sheets until someone grounded him again.
Once, in the early hours, Violet found him awake and shaking faintly, breath shallow and uneven.
“It hurts to breathe,” he admitted in a whisper, voice stripped bare of pride.
Violet sat beside him, smoothing his hair back. “I know.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I know,” she repeated, tears glistening in her eyes now. “But you must stop carrying everything alone.”
Anthony closed his eyes.
“I don’t know how.”
Her hand tightened around his. “Then we will teach you.”
⸻
By the fifth day, the pain had shifted — less sharp, more pervasive. A constant reminder with every movement, every breath. He could sit upright now, briefly, though it left him exhausted and pale.
The family rotated in quietly, one by one.
Daphne brought tea he barely drank. Eloise sat and read aloud, pretending not to notice when his breathing grew uneven. Gregory and Hyacinth hovered at the door, solemn in a way that made Anthony’s chest ache worse than his injuries.
He hated being the cause of their worry.
Yet… there was something unfamiliar in being allowed to rest. To be cared for. To not have to decide or manage or hold everything together.
The thought unsettled him.
Late one afternoon, Benedict lingered after the others had gone.
“You scared me,” Benedict said quietly.
Anthony glanced at him. “I scared everyone.”
“Yes,” Benedict agreed. “But you scared me because I know that look. The one where you decide you’ll endure anything rather than admit you’re hurting.”
Anthony looked away.
“I fell,” he said eventually. “I thought… if I kept moving, it would stop hurting.”
Benedict’s voice softened. “Pain doesn’t work that way.”
Anthony’s laugh was weak and humourless. “Neither does responsibility.”
They sat in silence for a long while.
⸻
Recovery was slow.
Too slow for Anthony’s liking.
But each day, the pain loosened its grip a fraction. Each breath came a little easier. Each movement demanded less careful calculation. And with each small improvement, Anthony learned — unwillingly, uncomfortably — what it meant to let himself be human.
To be hurt.
To be held together by others when he could not do it alone.