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Assistant: Title: the future is a foreign land
        Author: emsallthat emsallthat 
        Chapter: 8/8 
        Summary: When a tragic accident claims the lives of Colin and Kate, Anthony Bridgerton and Penelope Featherington are left shattered, their grief an unrelenting shadow over their lives. Anthony mourns his wife, the woman who grounded him, and his brother, his lifelong confidant. Penelope, carrying Colin's child, faces the unbearable weight of raising their baby without him.Bound by shared loss, Anthony and Penelope find solace in one another, their connection growing as they navigate the fragile path forward. Amid the pain, a glimmer of hope emerges—a chance to honor their loved ones by building a future they never expected but desperately need.
        Contents: Chapter 8: CHAPTER SEVEN
    

    

        
          
          
            At checkout, the cashier looked at them, smiled warmly.“You two will be wonderful parents.”Penelope froze.Anthony didn’t blink.He reached into his wallet, handed over his card, and said: “Thank you.”
          
        

  

  
  
    
    
  CHAPTER SEVEN
It started with a question she’d rehearsed a dozen times in her head but still stumbled over when it left her mouth.They were alone. Late evening. Kitchen quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the soft ticking of the wall clock. Anthony leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, nursing a half-cold cup of tea he hadn't really touched. Penelope sat at the table, her hands resting on the curve of her belly, eyes tracing the grain in the wood.The light was dim. Just the overhead lamp and the steady pulse of the storm outside—rain against glass like breath on skin.“I need to go,” she said, not looking at him. “To this… thing. A class.”Anthony glanced up, waiting.“Preparation,” she clarified. “For labour.”He said nothing.“I don’t want to go alone.”Her voice was small, but not unsure. Just quiet. Like she'd already been disappointed by the answer in her head.He set down the mug and crossed the kitchen slowly. Sat across from her, the space between them barely wide enough for their knees not to touch. His eyes flicked down to her hands. One was pressing lightly on the edge of the table. The other cupped the side of her stomach. Protective. Unconscious.“Of course,” he said.Just that.No hesitation. No performative duty. Just quiet resolve.Penelope nodded. Swallowed. Her fingers brushed his briefly—accidental. Or maybe not. She didn’t pull away. Neither did he.The class was held at a women’s clinic on the east side. They were the last to arrive.It was warm inside, too warm. Penelope unbuttoned her coat with one hand and pressed the other against her lower back. Anthony helped her out of it before she could ask. His hand brushed her shoulder, steadied her elbow. Familiar now, the way he touched her. Natural.The nurse at the front desk smiled and handed over the clipboard.“Names?”Penelope hesitated just a beat too long. The pen in her hand hovered.“Penelope Bridgerton,” she said.It slipped out like breath. Habit. Hope. Or something between the two.The nurse smiled, oblivious. “And your husband?”Anthony didn’t blink. “Anthony Bridgerton.”It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Not then. The room was too warm. Linoleum floors. Laminated diagrams. A faint, antiseptic tang in the air that clung to the corners of the walls like ghosts. Eight couples. Folding chairs in a wide, imperfect circle. A fake baby doll lay on a hospital sheet near the front of the room, swaddled too perfectly to be real.Penelope shifted in her seat, trying to ease the pressure off her back. Anthony—already watching—reached behind her without a word, slid a firm pillow into the small of her spine.She exhaled. Didn’t thank him. Didn’t need to.The instructor, a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes and a voice trained to soothe, stood at the front.“Tonight, we’re going to walk through the stages of labour. And more importantly, how your partners can support you.”She smiled. Gestured to the men.“You’re going to be their anchor. Their breath. Their body. You’ll hold them when they need it. Step back when they don’t. You’re the calm in the storm.”Penelope’s hand instinctively sought her belly. The baby shifted beneath her palm. Anthony’s gaze dropped to the movement, then lifted—slow, searching—to her face.She looked away first.The instructor continued. “I want you to partner up. You’ll practice physical support during contractions. Gentle touch. Encouragement. Pressure when needed. Don’t be shy. Labour is not a quiet thing.”A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the room. Anthony didn’t laugh. Neither did Penelope.When the instructor asked the partners to kneel beside their seats, Anthony obeyed without hesitation.She felt his knees brush her boots. His hand steadied itself on the side of her calf as he knelt. A warm, grounding weight.“Alright,” the instructor called. “Let’s simulate a contraction. Mothers, close your eyes. Partners, place one hand on their lower back. Use your voice. Your breath. Let them lean on you.”Penelope hesitated—then let her eyes slip shut.Anthony’s palm found her lower back. Firm. Solid. His other hand curled around hers, fingers threading without demand. His breath, steady and deliberate, aligned with hers.In. Out. In.She hadn’t realized how loud the world had been until that moment. The closeness. The quiet.His hand moved in slow, grounding circles. She leaned into it. Into him.She felt his chest rise—close, too close—just in front of her. His thumb traced over the ridge of her knuckles, slow and rhythmic.“You’re doing good,” he murmured, the words low enough only she could hear.It wasn’t real. The contraction. The pain.But her eyes stung anyway.“Switch positions,” the instructor called. “Now, I want partners behind them. Kneeling. One arm around the front, supporting the belly. Other hand for comfort. Close your eyes if it helps.”Penelope shifted forward. Anthony moved without pause.Kneeling behind her, he curved his body to hers. One arm looped carefully around her middle, his palm supporting the swell of her stomach. The other rested flat between her collarbones, splayed gently—not possessive, not hesitant. Just there.Penelope’s breath hitched.His head was close. She could feel the brush of his jaw against the crown of her head. His warmth along her spine. The press of his chest with each breath.Her hands came up to his forearm, light and shaking. She held him there. Anchored him as he was anchoring her.His voice again, lower now. Closer.“You’re safe.”The words shouldn’t have made her heart twist the way they did.But they did.And she didn’t pull away.When the class ended, she stayed seated, her fingers still loosely curled around his wrist.He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Not until she exhaled, leaned her head back against his shoulder for the briefest moment.“Thank you,” she whispered.He didn’t say anything in return. Just rested his forehead against the side of hers. Just for a second.The baby store was warm. Too bright. Rows of soft, pastel things blurred together like a dream she hadn’t meant to have.Penelope stood just inside the entrance, her coat still hanging open, hands pressed low against her stomach. Seven months. The weight of it changed how she moved. How she breathed. How she saw the world.Anthony stood beside her. His hand brushed her back lightly—barely there. Just a signal: I’m here.She didn’t speak. Just walked forward, slowly, aisle by aisle. There was a hush to the place. No music. No children. Just shelves of impossibly tiny things and the squeak of her shoes on the polished floor.He followed her.She paused by the bassinets first. White wicker. Pale oak. Soft grey.“I don’t know how to choose,” she murmured.“You don’t have to,” Anthony said. “We’ll look. That’s all.”
  We.
Not you.Not I.Just we.She nodded.A moment passed.Then: “That one.” She pointed to a simple bassinet with a pale wooden frame and a cream linen liner. No frills. No patterns.He didn’t ask why. He just read the tag. Took a photo. Quiet and efficient, like he was filing it away. They kept walking. The next aisle was bottles. Nipples. Sterilizers. Penelope picked up a glass bottle, held it to the light.“I don’t know if I want to breastfeed,” she said. “Is that awful?”Anthony was silent. Then: “I think whatever you choose will be right.”She blinked. Looked at him. No judgment. Just truth. She placed the bottle in the basket he’d taken from the front.Later, they stopped in front of shelves stacked with impossibly small clothes. Sleepers. Socks. Onesies the size of her hand.Penelope touched a soft, knitted cardigan. Her fingers trembled.“I thought we’d have more time,” she said, barely audible.Anthony didn’t answer. Just stepped closer. Reached around her without touching. Pulled a green sleeper down from the rack. Stars on it.“You liked stars,” he said.She looked at him. Swallowed hard. Nodded. He folded the sleeper, slowly, and placed it in the basket. They moved on.Wipes. Creams. Diapers. He asked questions here. Quiet ones.“What kind of cream do you think?”“Do we need a changing pad?”He used we again. Every time.It steadied her more than she wanted to admit.Near the end of the trip, she stopped. Her hand pressed low against her stomach again.The baby kicked.Hard.She inhaled sharply, surprised. Her knees bent a little.Anthony was there instantly, his hand at her elbow, the other cupping her lower back.“You alright?”“He’s strong,” she whispered, blinking quickly. “Stronger than I expected.”His hand slid around to her belly, tentative. Then settled. Warm. Anchoring. Her hand over his.They stayed like that. Between shelves of baby blankets. Her hand over his. His breath steady behind her. Close.“He’ll be okay,” Anthony said, low.It was the first time he’d said he.Not it.Not the baby.And Penelope—she didn’t cry. But her throat ached with it.At checkout, the cashier looked at them, smiled warmly.“You two will be wonderful parents.”Penelope froze.Anthony didn’t blink.He reached into his wallet, handed over his card, and said: “Thank you.”No corrections.No clarifications. Later, in the car, the bags in the back seat, Penelope sat with her hands resting on her knees. Quiet. Tired.“You didn’t correct her,” she said softly.Anthony kept his eyes on the road. “No.”“Why?”He didn’t answer at first.Then: “Because I didn’t want to.”Her breath caught.And for a long while, neither of them said another word.But when he pulled into the driveway, his hand found hers briefly as she reached for the door handle.A small thing.But not meaningless.Nothing was, anymore.'
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