Sometimes there is something about Wickham that Darcy doesn't like.

Sometimes his laughter is just a shade too bright, his eyes just a bit too measuring; sometimes he whispers things in the dead of night, coccooned in Darcy's bed with the bedcurtains closed around them, that he pretends not to remember in the morning. Darcy is young, and unsure of the etiquette of the situation; perhaps he should pretend not to remember too.

But he likes to remember. He likes to hold those words to him against that too-bright laugh, and remember the other things that happen in the dark.