Desmond had never even considered the possibility of leaving her to fend for herself. Not after that evening at the restaurant — their first real conversation in private. When he had shown her the note, folded in half and pulled from Peggy’s coat, when he had watched the tide of emotion pass behind her eyes like weather breaking across open water — grief, rage, disbelief, quiet resolve. From that moment on, he simply couldn’t. Not as a friend. Not as a man who had once considered them close family friends. Not as a decent human being.

Offering his help with the divorce proceedings had seemed the only logical thing to do. They both needed the same evidence, after all. The same photographs, the same testimony, the same brittle proof that what had happened had not been a lapse of judgment, but a betrayal with roots. And though something inside him resisted — the pride of a man not wanting to appear wounded, not wanting to admit how deeply he bled — her presence made the ache bearable. They shared the same slow disaster, and in sharing it, he felt less alone.

For weeks, he’d continued coming home to Peggy as though nothing had changed. He’d kissed her temple dutifully in the evenings — no more than that, for she never allowed any further closeness anyways — filled her lavender Rolls-Royce with gasoline, retrieved her from nightclubs when she called, slurring through the boa that barely concealed the bruises on her neck. His hands, steady and practiced, had buckled her into the passenger seat while she blinked in drunken languor, oblivious.

Desmond tapped the end of his pen gently against the folder before him, a pale blue folio containing every shred of proof they’d collected prepared for tomorrow's final hearings that would set both of them free, back to back. His tone, as always with her, was low, respectful. But this time, something quieter hummed beneath it.

“I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Lockwood,” he said softly, raising his eyes to meet hers. “I find myself increasingly pleased that I’ll soon no longer be obliged to call you by his name.”

Just then, a knock interrupted them — three precise raps from the hand of the ever-charming Mrs. Douglas, his aging secretary with her powdery hair pinned into a perfect twist. He excused himself, rose, and opened the door for her.

“Here, Mr. Connelly,” she murmured, holding a delicate porcelain cup and saucer. Desmond had replaced the entire office set weeks ago, after noticing a chip along the rim of the cup she had used.

He accepted the tea with quiet 'thank you', shut the door behind him, and turned back. “Mrs. Douglas remembered how you take your tea,” he said with a half-smile, approaching to set the cup down in front of her.

Only he fumbled. His hand, usually so precise, trembled ever so slightly, and a few drops of tea spattered across her skirt and over her hand. He caught his breath.

“Ah—hell—please, forgive my clumsiness, Mrs. Lockwood. I’ve been... sleeping so poorly lately, with these documents and the hours... my hands...”

Nonsense. The only explanation was what he was beginning to feel in her presence.

He set the cup down at last and retrieved a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, soft white linen, his initials embroidered in gold. He took one step closer and, without thinking, lowered himself to one knee before her chair.

“Allow me...” His voice came lower than he’d intended. Deeper, quieter. Desmond gently cupped her hand, trying to conceal the tremor in his fingers, to bury the force of the vibration he felt at the point where her skin met his — soft, warm skin he longed to lift to his lips for something far beyond a chaste, customary kiss...

He dabbed the spilled tea from the back of her hand with care, using the moment to follow the faint lines of her veins, the neat folds at the joints of her fingers, the pale half-moons at the base of each nail. His fingers closed infinitesimally around hers. He was near enough now to take in her scent — not only perfume, but her — and that blend pleased him more than anything he had ever breathed in.

Desmond swallowed and realized he had lingered in that position for seconds too long. Slowly, he lifted his head, searching for her gaze — his own filled with every unspoken confession, betraying every unsteady beat of his heart it skipped while close to her.

“Mrs. Lockwood,” he ghosted, voice not more than a rustling of the papers, Adam’s apple rising. “I do hope... I haven’t burned you...”