“Benophie Pie Is Delicious”

🧡 Fanfic Writer 🧡 Benophie Shipper🧡 this blog is not suitable for minors

[silverhallow]

🧭 Where to Find Me: AO3 / Twitter / Instagram / Wattpad

🔖 Tags: #ask ash #Benophie next generation #Bridgerton Next Gen #Ash's Wip #Ash's Luke Thompson Appreciation Post

📭 Ask Box: 💫 Open but bare with me 💫

👩‍❤️‍👨 My Main Ship: Benophie

🧑‍🤝‍🧑 Other Ships: Kanthony, Philoise, Franchel, Hyreth and Grucy (please note if you ask for one of these then please be patient as my muse doesn't always cooperate with me for these)

⭐️ My Stories ⭐️

📚 Regency Series on Ao3

📖 Modern Series on ao3

💻 Ao3 reposted Tumblr only

📝 Watt Pad Stories

📇 Tumblr Drabbles

📋 Current WIPs:

- Love Unleashed - A Story of Twilight and Curses

⭐ Coming Soon ⭐

Evermore

Fated to Break

📌 Important Notice: Life is super fucking busy so I am not as Active!

[silverhallow]

Chapter 3: The Weight of Recognition

Saturday mornings at The Gilded Spine moved at an unhurried pace. The rush belonged to the café next door; the bookshop preferred deliberation.

Sophie was reordering a precarious stack of second-hand hardbacks near the front display when Alfie groaned theatrically from somewhere in the back.

“If anyone asks,” he called weakly, “I am conducting inventory.”

“You are horizontal behind the biography section,” Sophie replied without looking up.

“I am communicating with Churchill.”

“You are a fashion student you’ve no reason to be doing that… you are obviously hungover.”

A pained silence.

Irma, behind the till, did not glance up from her ledger. “We do not discuss the moral consequences of youth before ten a.m.,” she said serenely.

Alfie muttered something about betrayal and disappeared again.

Sophie smiled faintly and shifted another stack of books. The winter morning light was pale and obliging; the bell above the door had not yet rung. She liked this hour best, the quiet before most people entered as she curated the gentle order of things waiting to be chosen.

The bell chimed.

She did not look up immediately.

“Morning,” she began automatically, reaching for another pile and then she looked.

The books slipped from her hands.

It was not a graceful spill. It was catastrophic. A full, mortifying cascade of hardbacks that struck the floor and, more regrettably, landed squarely on the polished toe of Benedict Bridgerton’s boot.

He swore, sharply, instinctively.

“Sorry…” she blurted at the exact same moment.

He bent slightly, catching one of the falling books before it could strike the ground again. “Bloody…”

He stopped in the action of handing her the book back because he had finally looked at her and the irritation fell cleanly from his expression.

For a suspended second, neither of them moved.

Sophie felt heat flood her face so quickly it was almost dizzying. She dropped to her knees to gather the books, hands fumbling, heart hammering against her ribs in a way that was entirely disproportionate to the injury she had just inflicted.

“I am so, so sorry,” she said, words tripping over each other. “That was completely… I wasn’t… I usually have full control of gravity.”

He stared at her, as he felt a strange flicker… that she was Familiar.

Not recognition but something dangerously close.

“It’s fine,” he said, though he was still looking at her as though trying to solve a puzzle. “I’ve survived worse.”

He handed her the book he had caught, with her completely avoiding his eyes.

Irma appeared at her shoulder with composed efficiency. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Benedict said quickly. “It's entirely my fault for standing where books clearly wished to fall.”

Sophie made a small, mortified sound.

Irma’s gaze moved between them with sharp, quiet assessment. “You’re not injured?”

“Only my dignity.”

“That can be repaired,” Irma replied smoothly. “We specialise in restoration.”

Sophie shot her a warning look that Irma ignored.

“I was actually looking for something,” Benedict continued, recovering some composure. “Alice Kent mentioned you might be able to help. A Blake commentary. First edition if possible.”

Irma’s expression brightened. “Alice sent you? That’s lovely. Sophie, darling, isn’t Alice your roommate at Cambridge.”

The words hung in the air.

Sophie felt it like a physical thing, the moment poised for revelation.

Benedict blinked. “Oh yeah she mentioned that she was,” he said lightly. “It is a small world.”

Sophie stared at him and realised that the penny wasn’t dropping. He didn’t recognise her… of course he wasn’t… Why would he?

He extended a hand. “Benedict Bridgerton.”

She stared at it for half a second too long.

“I…” She almost said I know.

Irma nudged her discreetly with her elbow.

“I… i’m Sophie,” she said quickly, placing her hand in his. “Sophie Baek.”

His hand was warm.

His expression shifted again, faintly puzzled.

“Sophie,” he repeated, as though testing the name against memory.

Her stomach flipped.

“I’m sorry about your foot,” she added brightly, because silence felt dangerous. “We usually only assault customers with fiction.”

A corner of his mouth lifted despite himself. “I’ll try not to take it personally.”

Irma cleared her throat gently. “The Blake commentary is in Literature, second aisle to the left.”

“I’ll get it,” Sophie said too quickly.

She stood, smoothing her jumper unnecessarily, and gestured toward the shelves. He followed.

The awkwardness walked between them like a third person.

She could feel him looking at her, not boldly, not even crudely. Just Curiously.

“You’re at Cambridge?” he asked as they reached the aisle.

“Yes.”

“What are you reading?”

“History and English.”

He paused slightly at that.

“Interesting combination.”

“I enjoy enduring things,” she replied automatically, then internally winced.

His expression flickered, there it was again.

Something Familiar.

“Have we met?” he asked lightly, almost apologetically. “You seem…”

Her pulse spiked.

“Oh,” she said quickly, too quickly. “There are quite a lot of people at Cambridge. And a surprising number of them look vaguely like me.”

That came out wrong.

She flushed deeper.

“I mean… statistically speaking…”

He laughed softly.

It wasn’t mocking. It was warm.

“I’m sure,” he said. “I just have a persistent sense I’m missing something.”

“You’re looking for Blake,” she replied, reaching for the correct spine. “That’s usually a sign of existential misplacement.”

He huffed a quiet laugh again.

She handed him the book.

Their fingers brushed.

It was small.

Electric.

He stilled for half a heartbeat.

So did she.

Then she stepped back first.

“There you are,” she said briskly, composure finally returning in thin layers. “First edition commentary. Marginal notes intact.”

He glanced down at the open page, impressed despite himself.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was a strange pause, a moment that should have been heavy and awkward but instead was charged with something neither of them could name aloud.

From the biography aisle, Alfie coughed pointedly, the unmistakable sound of someone who had absolutely been eavesdropping.

Sophie shot a glare toward Biography.

Benedict smiled faintly.

“I should let you return to gravity control,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’ll… try to keep it contained.”

He hesitated at the counter while Irma rang up the book. “Nice to meet you, Sophie.”

She swallowed.

“You too.”

He stepped back toward the door, then paused and turned ever so slightly and there it was again…a look, as though something was just beyond reach, beyond his recognition… something lingering in the background of his memory but something he couldn’t work out.

And with the chime of the bell he was gone.

As Benedict stepped out into the thin November light, the cold met him properly now, but he barely registered it. He walked three paces down the pavement before slowing.

Something tugged in his brain, it wasn’t a memory, it wasn’t even recognition, familiarity, that was the closest thing he could think of.

He turned his head back and through the front window of The Gilded Spine, he could see her, her head bent as she reassembled the display she had just destroyed, dark hair falling forward in soft disarray. The late-morning light caught in it.

She was definitely familiar to him, not just because she was beautiful but she was familiar in a way he had no idea how to describe.

It was the same sensation he’d felt when he’d met the woman at the masquerade…

He exhaled sharply. It was absurd. It couldn’t be her.

She was Alice’s roommate. If she were the girl from May, Alice would have known and would have said something…

And she would have absolutely teased him insufferably about it for the rest of his life.

He was certain of that.

“Get a grip,” he muttered, and forced himself to walk on.

Inside, Sophie had not moved.

Not properly.

She stood staring at the door as though it might reconsider and open again.

“Well,” Alfie said from the depths of Biography, voice hoarse but suddenly very alert, “that was either the most catastrophic meet-cute I have ever witnessed, or you’ve taken to assaulting customers via blunt force trauma.”

Sophie blinked and began stacking books that did not require stacking.

“Who,” Alfie demanded, appearing at the end of the aisle, one hand pressed to his temple, “was that?”

“No one.”

“He was six foot two if he was an inch.”

“I did not measure him.”

“You didn’t need to. You came up to his elbow.”

“I am perfectly proportioned.”

“He had bone structure.”

“Lots of people have bones.”

“He had bone structure,” Alfie repeated meaningfully. “Sharp jaw. Ridiculous cheekbones. And expensive shoes.”

Sophie refused to look at him.

“Hand-stitched,” Alfie continued darkly. “Italian, if I’m not mistaken. Also the coat? Tailored. That was not high-street.”

“You were horizontal five minutes ago.”

“I have standards even in agony.”

Irma made a soft noise behind the counter but did not intervene yet.

Alfie leaned closer, squinting. “Also the height. The reach of that man. If he leaned down…”

“Alfie.”

“I’m just saying. The logistics are impressive.”

“Alfie no!!!”

“What? I’m appreciating architecture.”

Sophie turned sharply, grabbed the nearest book, threw it at him, and before he could dodge the book she launched into the only thing she knew that would make him run off and change the subject… recitating,

“My love is as a fever, longing still,” she declared loudly, pacing now, hands clasped behind her back like a lecturer mid-sermon. “For that which longer nurseth the disease…”

Alfie froze.

“Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please. Past cure I am, now reason is past care…”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Alfie said flatly.

“And frantic-mad with evermore unrest…”

“You have never gone full Sonnet One-Forty-Seven before...”

Sophie ignored him. “My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are…”

Irma closed her ledger with deliberate calm.

“Sophie.”

She stopped mid-line.

Alfie stared at her. “You used to weaponise Sonnet Eighteen. Sweet. Classic. Romantic. Now we’re at fever-dream obsession and madness?”

“It is academic.”

“It is escalation.”

“I am broadening my literary horizons.”

“You dropped approximately eight kilos of Victorian misery on a six-foot-two Greek God in loafers and then quoted Shakespeare about disease.”

“It slipped.”

“You went crimson.”

“It is warm here.”

“It is November, if it was any colder I’d see your nipples.”

Irma finally stepped forward. “If either of you are about to discuss Greek statues before eleven am, kindly do so with more decorum.”

Alfie did not look away from Sophie. “Who was he?”

“No one.”

“You looked like someone had pulled the fire alarm inside your chest.”

Sophie opened her mouth to retort and found nothing coherent there.

Irma studied her adoptive children with long-suffering affection. Alfie, pale and dramatic and entirely too perceptive for someone with a hangover. Sophie, bright and deflective and visibly shaken in a way she was trying very hard to disguise.

“Water,” Irma said calmly.

Alfie didn’t move.

“Now.”

He sighed theatrically. “This is not over,” he warned Sophie, pointing at her before shuffling toward the back. “And for the record, if you start quoting the Dark Lady sonnets, I’m staging an intervention.”

Sophie stood very still once he disappeared.

Irma raised one brow. “Should I be concerned?”

“No.”

“You just recited Shakespeare about madness.”

“It was thematic.”

“With what?”

Sophie hesitated.

Irma softened. “You know you do not have to perform in this house.”

The words landed gently, though it was still like a blow to her soul, Sophie swallowed.

“I know.”

Outside, halfway down the street, Benedict slowed again.

He could still see her in his mind, the fluster, the intelligence in her eyes, the way she had stood so small in front of him and yet not felt small at all.

She was so familiar as well as beautiful.

He frowned faintly.

It couldn’t be her.

Alice would have absolutely said something and not left him heartbroken for 6 months.

He walked on, unsettled in a way he could not justify.

[silverhallow]

Chapter 5: The Eastern Alpha

[silverhallow]

Chapter 4: The Severing

[silverhallow]

I kown that the football World Cup is nearly over but I would like a Benophie fan fiction centre around it .Benedict as the England captain and Sophie as fan

I don’t really have the time at the moment to get something done. I’ll add it to my list sadly I can’t give promises

[silverhallow]

Chapter 2: The Shape of Almost

November arrived in Cambridge like a story that had forgotten its warmth. The trees in the courtyard stood bare and intricate against a sky the colour of unpolished silver, their branches etched thin against the light. Breath fogged before morning lectures. The stone held the cold long after the sun retreated. Michaelmas was narrowing toward its end; essays loomed, supervisions tightened, and the days shortened without apology.

Sophie Baek had learned the art of avoidance.

It was not dramatic. It was logistical, a simple rearranging of routes and a recalculation of timing.

She took a different staircase after her morning lecture, her lunch at the quieter end of the hall and used the library entrance by the side gate rather than across the quad.

It wasn’t fear, it was just self-preservation.

The first time she saw him that term, once they’d returned to university after the summer, it had been a Thursday, just after eleven. The early autumn air had been sharp enough to sting.

He stood beneath the autumnal branches near the fountain, sketchbook tucked beneath his arm, laughing at something a friend had said.

Her body reacted before her mind did, something tightened and a warmth she had carefully dismantled over the summer began to build as her brain caught up and recognised the laugh..

Benedict…

The name felt dangerous in her thoughts and in her heart and as she glanced around she saw that he looked unchanged, which felt entirely unfair.

She had altered herself to survive him and he had the audacity to remain exactly as he was… the world was entirely unfair.

She had decided she needed to leave as she noticed Benedict and his friends starting to move and looking like they were turning in her direction and she turned too quickly, nearly colliding with a first-year who muttered something sharp under his breath.

She apologised automatically, quietly and disappeared beneath the archway toward the library stairs.

Do not let him see you. She muttered to herself as she ran, because if he looked at her, properly looked, and found nothing familiar there, that would confirm everything she had told herself in June… she was forgettable.

She had just been a one-night stand, a notch… the thing she’d always sworn she’d not do.

Across the quad, Benedict’s laughter faltered without understanding why. A flicker of pale fabric vanished beneath the stone. A sensation, faint but insistent. that something had just slipped out of reach, he apologised to his friends as something moved in his peripheral vision, something that his soul was telling him he needed to find and he moved in the direction of the blur he’d seen before he could justify it…

Crossed the courtyard in quick strides. Rounded the archway and nearly collided with Tessa Davies, a former fling from his sculpture course in the first year.

“Benedict?”

He stopped short. “Sorry. I thought you were…”

“Someone else?” she supplied with mild amusement.

He stepped back. “Yes.”

She smiled politely and continued on. He remained there a moment longer, unsettled and it began happening more often after that.

A figure turning away in the library stacks. A laugh in the hall that made him look up too quickly. Light fabric catching at the edge of his vision.

Each time it was wrong.

His memory was treacherous in daylight but he remembered silver, or something very close to it. Under fairy lights, everything shimmered… but now, his world was bleak, nothing shimmered anymore… and to top it all off, he was losing his mind…

~*~

Today however, found Sophie inside the library stairwell, Sophie pressed her back against the cool stone and exhaled slowly.

She was being absurd, she knew she was.

“Are you hiding,” Hazel asked from halfway up the staircase, “or have you developed a sudden interest in medieval masonry?”

Sophie started, not expecting her best friend to just materialise from nowhere. “I am conducting research…”

“On the wall?” Hazel asked bemused, she’d seen some weird behaviour from Sophie over the years but this… was new.

“It’s a very cooperative wall.” Sophie smiled sweetly.

Hazel descended a few steps, unimpressed. “You were running…”

“I was striding.” Sophie lied

“You despise cardio… you always said running is the worst form of exercise”

“I contain multitudes…”

Hazel folded her arms. “You’re flushed.”

“It’s atmospheric.”

“It’s October.”

“Exactly. The air is dramatic.”

Hazel’s mouth twitched despite herself. “You look like someone who’s just seen a ghost.”

“Exams,” Sophie replied promptly. “They lurk.”

“It’s week five.”

“Time is a social construct.”

Hazel studied her for a long moment. “You’ve been doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The smiling-too-fast thing.”

Sophie straightened. “That is simply my face.”

“It’s your defence mechanism.”

Sophie tilted her head. “I prefer the term sparkling personality.”

Hazel’s gaze softened slightly. “Are you sleeping?”

“I adore sleep.”

“You look like you’re negotiating with it.”

Sophie huffed a laugh and pushed off the wall. “I am fine. I am thriving. I am a model of academic stability.”

“You’re talking to a wall Soph.” Hazel said, raising a brow and looking at her childhood best friend convinced she’d lost her marbles.

“Reasearching… not talking...” Sophie replied brightly.

“It’s been there for eight hundred years.”

“Exactly. It’s full of history! I love history.”

Hazel shook her head, smiling despite herself. “If you’re spiralling, you can just say that.”

“I am not spiralling,” Sophie replied with a breezy sort of smile. “I am merely… brisk.”

Hazel did not press. She rarely did as she knew Sophie well enough to know it wasn’t worth it. But she did not believe her either, there was absolutely something strange going on.

Outside, Benedict stood in the library entrance longer than necessary, unsettled by a familiarity he could not place, he thought he’d seen something again… and he’d told himself it was imagination.

That six months was long enough for memory to distort. That he was projecting something onto strangers… people he knew… and he had no idea what…

The following week, it happened again, in the hall, he heard a laugh that made him look up sharply and look around for a moment but he couldn’t see the source.

Sophie had just reached for a glass when his voice carried across the table, animated, warm, threaded with that same conviction she remembered. She froze mid-motion, ducking her head slightly so that the towering third year next to her covered her.

Hazel noticed immediately. “You’ve stopped blinking.”

“I am blinking.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m conserving energy.”

Hazel glanced toward the far end of the hall looking to see what could have caused Sophie to freeze like a deer in headlights. “Who is it?”

“No one.”

“That is not a no-one reaction.”

Sophie lifted her glass and downed her water in one. “Hydration is important.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I am thriving,” she repeated, too cheerfully.

When she finally looked up, he was already leaving through the far door, coat slung over his shoulder, unaware of the look of confusion on his face.

The relief Sophie felt was sharp, humiliating and exhausting and her first weeks back had been utterly draining and tormenting.

For Benedict however, the first few weeks back began to feel like one strange nightmarish dream.

Once, crossing the courtyard at dusk, he was certain he saw her walking ahead of him, scarf pulled high, hair loose down her back. He followed without thinking. She turned the corner near the chapel.

When he rounded it, the passage beyond was empty.

Another afternoon, he thought he’d seen her again and he nearly walked into her in the corridor outside the lecture rooms but before he could say something, or even find out who she was… when someone called his name from the far end of the hall and the girl disappeared one again

That night, he found himself sketching again without meaning to for the first time in months, but it was the same drawing as he had done all summer, the same face but it was blurred but this time, the feelings rose in him, fast and furious like they had that night as the memories rose and refused to be pushed away.

By the first week of November, the “almost” moments had begun to feel less like coincidence and more like choreography, two people orbiting the same centre and refusing to look directly at it.

One late Friday afternoon, under a sky already fading toward indigo, Benedict sat on the low stone wall near the chapel, coat collar turned up against the cold. Alice Kent sat opposite him with notes scattered across her lap.

“You look like a tragic heartbroken artist,” she observed mildly.

“I do not.”

“You do.” she grinned.

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s even worse. You Bridgerton’s are lethal when you think” she teased

He exhaled, ignoring the quip about his family and unfolded a reading list from his pocket. “I need a specific Blake commentary. The Ruskin copy is missing three pages.”

“For your dissertation?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve only just realised this…?” She asked looking confused

“I was hoping it would reappear out of guilt.” he replied honestly.

Alice laughed softly. “Order it.”

“I need it for Monday for my tutor meeting and it won’t come in over the weekend.”

She tapped her pen thoughtfully. “There’s a small bookshop near the river,” she said after a moment. “Independent. Slightly dramatic name. They’re very good at sourcing obscure academic texts.”

He glanced at her. “Are they?”

“One of my roommates works there on weekends. They always manage to find things the faculty can’t.”

“What’s it called?”

She frowned faintly. “I can’t remember the name. Something literary. It’s next to a café called Marigold & Steam i’m surprise you didn’t know it”

He frowned, shocked he had forgotten that, that bookshop existed which was ridiculously considering he passed it most weekends going to see Ali.

“I’ll try there tomorrow,” he said.

Alice smiled. “If they don’t have Blake, no one will.”

Across the courtyard, unseen by either of them, Sophie crossed toward the library once more, scarf drawn high against the cold.

She told herself she preferred being a memory.

Tomorrow, that preference would be tested.

[silverhallow]

Chapter 2: The Agony of the Bond

Chapter 3: Punishment

Are on ao3

(I uploaded chapter 2 a little while ago but forgot to post)

[silverhallow]

Do you see the pic of Luke at Wimbledon today ?

I did!! He appeared!! I was starting to worry he wasn’t going!!

[silverhallow]

Sorry I’ve been quiet lately

It’s like the centre of hell here at the moment for me with my Graves’ disease and issues with heat and I’ve got a stupidly clingy toddler making it all worse…

I am due to have some surgery in a few months time to have my thyroid out so I promise I will get around to all my asks then and in the mean time I will be posting my two completed stories.

I may not always post here that I’ve done so (as I forgot about Chapter 2 of Fated to Break) but if you follow me on Ao3 it’ll tell you there I’ve posted updates

I will try and be around more but in the mean time pray I don’t die from heat exhaustion or internal melting first…

[silverhallow]

Sophie Baek doesn’t believe in things that last.

Not in fairytales, not in fate, and definitely not in love at first sight.

She tried that once.

It didn’t end well.

Months later, she’s back to routine. Safe. Careful. Forgettable.

Then she meets Benedict Bridgerton or rather she meets him again.

He knows he’s forgotten something important. She knows exactly what it is.

And neither of them are quite prepared for what happens when the past refuses to stay buried.

Because some things don’t end.

They just wait.

Especially when they’ve been seen In the Wrong Light.

Chapter 1: Bricks, Plaster and Silence

Sophie Baek unlocked The Gilded Spine at eight fifty-seven on a grey November Saturday. The key turned twice, the door gave with its familiar weight, and the bell chimed overhead with that bright, dependable sound she had known since she was fourteen.

Routine steadied her. The shop greeted her in its usual way, old paper and lemon polish, wood warmed faintly by weak morning light. Dust drifted lazily in the beams slanting through the front window.

From next door came the low hum of Marigold & Steam, milk steaming, crockery clinking, cinnamon threading faintly through brick.

Home, Sophie often thought, was not a place that dazzled. It was a place that did not move unexpectedly beneath your feet.

She slipped behind the counter, set her bag down, and began straightening the display of new arrivals that did not require straightening. Control, she had learned, was sometimes a matter of inches.

“You know,” Alfie called from somewhere deep in the History section sounding like a man who had drank way too much Vodka the night before, “most university students spend Saturdays recovering from questionable one-night stands not pottering around their adopted mothers bookstore.”

His tone was conversational, almost scholarly and Sophie did not look up as she tried to let her expression show what she felt.

Like she’d been punched in the gut... “Most university students,” she replied, “do not have the good sense to spend their Saturdays in independent bookshops improving their minds.”

Alfie appeared at the end of the aisle, arms folded, grin wide and merciless. “Translation for those mere mortals who are not studying English and history… you’re judging me.”

“I am evaluating you,” she corrected. “And finding you lacking.”

He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “After everything I’ve done for you.”

“You once ate the last cinnamon bun which was left for me and blamed it on a customer.”

“I was protecting the customer’s reputation.”

Irma emerged from the back office carrying a ledger and paused just long enough to watch them. “Can you two behave,” she said mildly, “it’s barely 9am and Ali’s not been in with my coffee yet...”

Alfie leaned his elbows on the counter. “I was merely observing that most people our age enjoy reckless youth.”

“And I was merely observing,” Sophie said lightly, “that I prefer literature to being a walking disaster.”

Alfie narrowed his eyes slightly. “You used to enjoy disaster.”

“I have matured.”

“Six months ago you came home glowing like you’d discovered electricity.”

Sophie’s fingers stilled on the edge of a paperback, but it was only for a second, as she composed herself.

“I always glow,” she said smoothly.

“Not like that.”

Irma set the ledger down, the warning evident in her tone “Alfred...”

He held up his hands in surrender hearing his adoptive mother using his full name was never a good sign and it was too early and he was too hungover to start a fight, but his gaze lingered on Sophie with the quiet perceptiveness of someone who had grown up alongside her. They had both learned young how to read the temperature of a room. They had both learned that humour could redirect it.

Sophie smiled, bright, and deliberately, her shield was in place.

Irma saw it. She had seen the shift over the summer, the humming that had stopped, the way Sophie no longer glanced up instinctively when the bell above the door rang. Something had folded inward, carefully, efficiently.

Irma did not pry. It was different from when Sophie had been a child. This time she assumed it was a boy.

Love, she had learned, was often patience disguised as silence and heartbreak disguised as smiles. Irma hadn't seen Sophie like this since just after her father and wicked step-mother had died and now, she had seemingly regressed, her armour was back on, her guard was up…

Six months ago, she’d seen the difference in her adoptive daughter, she’d seen the girl who hadn’t needed her armour anymore, seen the girl Alfie had described, who had bounced in as though she’d discovered that gravity was optional.

She didn’t know what had changed, what had caused the armour to go back on but she’d watched it happen over the summer… but Sophie hadn’t said anything, she’d just… put her guard up, her shield in place…

Sophie knew why… Sophie didn’t want pity, didn’t want to be judged… didn’t need to be told that her step-mother had been right about her all along so she kept it to herself…

It had been May, the end of her first year at Cambridge. Warm air, open windows, fairy lights strung between ancient stones at the college masquerade.

Hazel had tightened the ribbon of Sophie’s mask in their narrow kitchen beforehand, bracing it against her wrist with deft familiarity. “If you vanish before ten,” Hazel had warned. “I’m dragging you back.” Alice Kent had laughed and declared she would set an alarm for half past nine in preparation for Sophie’s inevitable retreat, she’d promised them she would stop…

But she had indeed disappeared early but not for the reasons they thought, they both believed she left early as was her usual party trick and Sophie had let them believe it…

Because explaining what followed would have meant admitting how quickly she had believed in something.

How someone had shattered her heart.

She met him just after nine. He asked her to dance without even asking her name.

They spoke first about Byron and Blake, about art and whether it should burn or endure, about history as proof that most flames consumed the wrong things. He said he painted hands before faces because faces lied.

She said texts survived because someone believed they mattered enough to copy. They disagreed warmly, intelligently, delighted not in victory but in recognition.

Later, beneath an archway threaded with fairy lights, when the music softened and the crowd thinned, he told her that this should not be one of those nights that disappeared. He said he would like to see her again properly, without masks, somewhere they could continue arguing about Blake. It was not specific, but it was intentional, and that mattered.

In his dorm room, cramped, chaotic, sketches pinned everywhere, they talked for another hour before anything else happened. He asked what she believed in. She answered that she believed in enduring things. He smiled as though that was important.

When he kissed her, it was unhurried. When he touched her, it was careful. He asked if she was sure. She was.

Because he had spoken about tomorrow. Because it did not feel temporary. It felt like the beginning of forever.

At 3:04am, her phone rang.

John Crabtree

Responsibility moved faster than romance. She slipped from the bed without waking him. He lay on his side, one arm stretched loosely across the space she had occupied, breathing slow and unaware. She stood for a moment, watching him, because leaving felt heavier than it should have. She wrote her name and number clearly on a torn page from a notebook, wrote her full name, deliberate letters, and left it where he would see it. Then she dressed in the dark and left at 3:21am.

By four she was in Marigold & Steam, sleeves rolled, flour dusting her hair, finishing Honey-Spiced Pear Crumble Loaves while John sat on a stool with his ankle wrapped in ice and swore at himself for slipping. By noon she was home, something golden still flickering quietly inside her.

She waited.

May slipped into June, which descended into July without an answer.

The first day she jumped at every notification thinking it was him.

The second she checked her phone too often when it was still.

By the third, something older began whispering.

Araminta’s voice had never needed volume. Do not mistake attention for intention. No one chooses girls like you unless they have to.

Back home for summer, Sophie worked more than she needed to. She baked when she could not quiet her thoughts. Alfie noticed she stopped humming. Irma noticed she stopped glancing toward the door when the bell rang. Gradually, she folded that night away. It was easier to believe she had misread it, that she had been wrong… that she was indeed forgettable… as she’d always been told.

She’d been foolish to believe that someone like her got a happy ending…

~*~

Next door, Benedict Bridgerton stepped into Marigold & Steam just before ten, shrugging out of his coat as warmth and cinnamon met him. Alice Crabtree glanced up from the counter and her expression softened in that way it had since he was small enough to sit on the flour sacks in her kitchen.

“You look tired,” she said, not unkindly.

“I am not,” he replied automatically.

She arched her brow. “You forget I helped raise you.”

He smiled faintly at that and leaned against the counter while she prepared his usual coffee without asking. “How’s your mother?” she asked. “And the rest of them?”

“Anthony’s still insufferable,” Benedict said. “Colin is pretending to be serious about something. Daphne is a typical teenage girl. Eloise is driving Anthony mad. Fran’s getting really good at the piano. Gregory is Gregory. Hyacinth is chaos. Mum’s keeping them all together.”

Ali hummed approvingly. “And you?”

“I’m fine.”

She set the cup down in front of him but did not release it immediately. “You seem… different.”

He hesitated only a fraction of a second. “It’s my Third year Ali,” he said. “It's Dissertation time, everything is just busier. Don’t worry about me, I am all good..”

Alice did not look convinced, but she let it go. “Will and Alice are at their usual table,” she said instead, nodding toward the corner. “I’ll bring this over.”

He took the cup and crossed to where Will Mondrich and Alice Kent sat with their heads bent together over notes.

“You’re brooding,” Will said without looking up.

“I am not brooding.”

“You are absolutely brooding,” Alice added, studying him over the rim of her cup. “It’s very aesthetic. Very tragic.”

He rolled his eyes and sat down. They did not push at first. They never did. Will waited until Benedict had taken a sip before saying, “Still thinking about her?”

Benedict did not pretend not to know who he meant.

“She wasn’t like the others,” he said.

Will’s brow lifted slightly at that. Alice leaned forward, interested but not mocking.

“How?” she asked.

“She argued about Byron,” he said. “Properly. Said Blake was indulgent.”

Alice smirked. “Correct.”

“And she said history proves most flames burn the wrong things.”

Alice’s smile faltered just slightly. That sounded familiar. But when he added, firmly, that she had been wearing a silver dress and a silver mask, Alice dismissed the thought. Sophie had worn ice blue that night.

Benedict was an artist. He would know the difference.

“You didn’t get her name?” she asked.

“No.”

“And she left?”

“Yes.”

Will studied him. “John’s said you haven’t brought anyone home since.”

Benedict shrugged, as though it were incidental. It was not.

Alice Crabtree passed their table then, setting down a plate of pastries. “Eat something,” she said. “You all look underfed.” Her gaze lingered on Benedict a second longer before she returned to the counter.

He stared down at the foam in his cup. He remembered the certainty of that night more vividly than the shape of her face. He remembered inevitability. He remembered the way she had said enduring things as though she meant them.

Had he been just a means to an end… had he been truly that forgettable… or so easy to leave without so much as a backward look…

The woman who had changed his heart had disappeared and he had no idea why…

What he didn’t realise was that all that stood between them was brick, plaster, and six months of silence… and neither knew how fragile that distance was about to become.

[silverhallow]

Sophie gave her heart to a destiny she thought was written in the stars.

When that destiny shatters, she is left with nothing but rejection, exile, and the wounds of a betrayal she never saw coming. Stripped of her future and abandoned by her pack, Sophie must rebuild herself from the ruins of the life she lost.

But some wolves are not destined to break.

Taken in by the feared Alpha Benedict, Sophie begins to uncover the truth about who she is and why fate seemed determined to destroy her. Because hidden within her is a power, a legacy, and a purpose far greater than the mate bond that once defined her.

The fate that betrayed her was never the one she was meant to follow.

Chapter 1: The Unmaking of a Luna

The office was too quiet for what was about to happen.

Sophie stood stiffly near the hearth, her arms folded tight across her chest, as if she could hold herself together by sheer force of will. The fire crackled behind her, but it gave no warmth.

Three weeks. That’s how long it had been since Rowan had marked her. Since his canines had broken skin at the base of her neck and etched their bond into her soul.

She had waited years to feel complete.

Years believing the flutter in her chest, the pull in her core, the whisper of mine in her bones, meant love. That he was just being patient. That they were young. That he was protecting her by waiting.

But he hadn’t been waiting. He’d been lying. Hiding. Cheating.

One week from today, they were supposed to complete the bond. One week from now, she was meant to give herself to him fully, body, heart, soul. The final part of the mating ceremony. The sacred night that would turn the connection unbreakable.

And now she could barely look at him.

Rowan sat across the room, his hands clasped between his knees. His shoulders were tight, tense. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. Not really. Not for more than a second.

Her parents stood beside her, Charles a silent mountain of rage, Alice rigid with disbelief.

Alpha Malric, Rowan’s father, stood behind his desk, one hand gripping the polished oak, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked older than she’d ever seen him.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Rowan said finally, his voice hoarse.

Sophie’s head snapped up, her eyes burning. Didn’t mean?

“You cheated,” she said quietly, the words splintering like ice. “You marked me and kept lying. You’ve been with her this whole time.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t look away.

“I thought…” Rowan started, then swallowed. “I thought the mate bond was a mistake.”

The words hit harder than claws.

Charles growled low in his throat, and Alice reached out to touch Sophie’s hand. But Sophie didn’t flinch. She couldn’t.

“You thought I was a mistake?” Her voice shook now, and her hands trembled as her wolf surged beneath her skin, furious and wounded.

“Where is Luna Cassandra?” Alice asked suddenly, her voice clipped and brittle, trying to redirect.

But it was too late.

A sharp scent sliced through the room. Sweet. Cloying. Familiar.

Sophie froze.

No.

Not here. Not now. Not her.

Her nose twitched as the scent hit again . Sophie’s head turned slowly toward the hallway just outside the office, her body trembling with recognition.

The door creaked open, and three figures stepped inside.

Araminta Li led them, her beauty as severe as ever, her expression unreadable. Beside her walked Lucian Li, tall and composed, his movements crisp with military precision. And trailing just a step behind them, draped in silk and silence, was Rosamund.

Sophie’s hands curled into fists at her sides. Her wolf stirred immediately.

The moment Rosamund stepped across the threshold, Sophie’s heart twisted.

Sophie could sense what had been masked before, something richer beneath the perfume, undeniable and infuriating.

Charles’s shoulders tensed.

But when Lucian passed him, the Beta offered a subtle nod. “Charles. Alice.”

Nothing more. No smirk, no condescension. Just two warriors addressed with the respect they were due.

Then Lucian turned, lowering his head slightly toward the desk. “Alpha. Luna.”

Malric gave a curt nod but said nothing. His eyes were fixed on Rowan, who had yet to lift his head.

Cassandra, who had entered silently behind the Li family, lingered near the door. Her hands were folded in front of her; her expression strained. She didn’t speak, didn’t lift her gaze, not to Sophie, not to her husband. Her shame clung to her like fog.

But Sophie barely noticed.

Because the moment Rosamund’s scent hit her nose, everything else dropped away.

Honeysuckle.

Smoke.

And now, beneath it, something new.

Something Sophie’s instincts couldn’t ignore.

Alpha Malric stiffened. His nostrils flared.

His gaze flicked toward Rosamund, then snapped to Rowan, hard and unyielding.

“You’ve bred her,” Malric said flatly.

The words dropped like a stone in water.

Rosamund froze. Rowan jolted, his face draining of colour. Sophie…

Sophie lunged.

A savage, inhuman snarl tore from her throat as she launched herself at Rosamund, claws mid-shift, muscles surging with pure rage.

Rosamund cried out.

But Sophie never reached her.

Malric moved in a blur. One arm locked around Sophie’s waist, yanking her midair; his other palm struck her shoulder, forcing her back with the weight of his Alpha command.

She thrashed, her shift halfway through, fur streaked her arms, claws tore from her fingers, and her eyes shone a vivid, emerald-green, blazing with vengeance.

“Sophie!” Malric barked. “Stand. Down.”

But she couldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

Her wolf demanded justice.

Charles moved forward instinctively, ready to help, but Alice held his arm, her face pale with fury and pain.

“Take her out!” Alpha Malric roared at Rowan. “Now.”

Rowan didn’t wait.

He rushed to Rosamund’s side, swept her into his arms without a word, and fled the room.

The door slammed behind them.

And still Sophie writhed, her breath ragged, her bones shifting and snapping beneath her skin.

Malric held her tightly, whispering words only an Alpha could use to anchor a wolf teetering on the edge of madness.

Lucian remained still.

Araminta said nothing.

Cassandra’s eyes glistened but she kept her head bowed.

And in the centre of it all, Sophie’s world fell apart.

Sophie collapsed to her knees on the hardwood floor, her body trembling violently. The shift receded in staggered waves, fur withdrawing, claws slipping back beneath skin, her wolf retreating into a corner of her soul but the rage didn’t go with her.

It never left.

Her breath hitched once. Then again.

And then she broke.

Her eyes, still glowing emerald for a brief second, dimmed, flickering back to their natural dark brown as her shoulders shook, and she sobbed in ragged, gasping heaves.

Alice moved, but Charles held her back with a hand at her wrist. Not yet. Sophie was still in a storm, and it wasn’t over.

Malric let go of her slowly, crouching beside her without touching her again. His face, usually unreadable, looked drawn in grief.

“I offer you my deepest apologies, Sophie,” he said, voice thick with something between shame and sorrow. “This should never have happened. You deserved more. Better.”

Sophie couldn’t speak. Her cries were soft, but the kind of quiet that cuts deeper than screaming.

Malric stood slowly, bracing himself as Charles stepped forward, his expression carved from stone.

“I have every right to challenge your pup for what he’s done.”

Malric met his gaze. He didn’t flinch.

“I don’t dispute that,” he said. “But I cannot sanction a challenge. He’s my blood. My son. The future Alpha of this pack…”

Charles’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue.

The silence snapped when Alpha Malric turned on the others.

“Lucian. Araminta.” His voice dropped to a growl. “Did Rosamund know Rowan had already marked Sophie? That they’ve been destined for one another since they were fourteen?!? That they were to complete the bond in a week’s time?”

Lucian’s eyes flicked to his mate.

Araminta’s jaw was tight as she gave a stiff nod. “Yes. She knew.”

Malric’s gaze sharpened. “Then answer me this! Did you raise her with pack values? With honour?”

Lucian’s composure shifted ever so slightly. “Maybe you should be asking your son that.”

Malric’s shoulders stiffened.

“They’ve been sneaking around for over a year,” Araminta said, her voice clipped. “And your heir informed us,” she nodded to Lucian, “that he planned to reject Sophie at the final ceremony.”

A crack of silence fell.

Malric’s voice was low and dangerous. “What?”

Lucian looked at Sophie.

The pain on the floor.

The daughter of warriors. The girl he once trained beside. The Luna who could have been.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. “Out of respect for Sophie… for her parents, both gone and living, I won’t repeat Rowan’s words. I won’t cause her more harm.”

Sophie flinched like he’d struck her anyway.

Her chest tightened until it physically hurt to breathe.

“Enough!” Alice snapped.

She crossed the room in a flash, falling to her knees beside Sophie and gathering her into her arms. Sophie collapsed against her, sobbing into the woman’s shoulder like she had as a child after her first nightmare.

Alice held her tightly.

“This girl is my daughter,” she hissed, voice trembling with fury. “Mine. And I will not let her hear one more word of this abomination.”

She stood, lifting Sophie with a mother’s strength, the strength of blood and bond.

And without another word, she turned her back on them all and walked out.

No one dared follow.

The door had barely clicked shut behind Alice when Malric rounded on Lucian.

His Alpha presence flooded the room, quiet and cold like a storm settling in before lightning struck.

“Tell me what he said,” Malric said tightly. “Now.”

Lucian squared his shoulders, not defiant, but calm. “He said that while Sophie may have been his mate… he never felt the bond. Not the way she did.”

Silence.

“He said he marked her out of duty,” Lucian continued. “Because completing the bond with her was how he’d secure the Alpha title. But he doesn’t love her. He loves Rosamund.”

Malric staggered back half a step.

“No,” he whispered. “No, that’s… impossible. The bond is mutual. It’s always mutual.”

Araminta didn’t look surprised. She didn’t look at anything.

Cassandra gasped as she glanced at her mate, also confused, her voice cracking with panic as she said. “Mal. We have to do something. He has to reject her. Now. For both of their sanity…”

Charles growled.

Loud. Low. Violent.

He stepped forward, eyes glowing gold. “Don’t talk to me about Rowan’s sanity.”

Cassandra flinched.

“My daughter, my pup, has been ruined,” Charles snarled. “Her heart’s been shredded by your son. My Sophie has done everything for that boy. She’s loved him since before either of them even knew what a mate bond was!”

Malric raised a hand to intervene, but didn’t. Not yet.

“Answer me, Alpha Malric!” Charles demanded, turning on his Alpha. “Did you raise your son with our values? With the values of the Moon Goddess? Did you ever teach him what it means to be Alpha?”

The silence that followed was blistering.

Malric didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then, quietly, he said, “No punishment you could offer me would match what I feel now, brother.”

Charles stared at him, breathing hard, and then his strength gave out all at once.

He dropped into a nearby chair like a felled tree, head in his hands.

“My pup,” he whispered. “Our future Luna. She’s dying from heartbreak.”

Malric stood there, still as stone, his own heart breaking under the weight of a truth that had no name.

Malric rubbed his face with both hands, dragging his fingers down slowly, as if he could scrub away the chaos his son had caused.

He couldn’t force them to complete the mating. Not now. Not after this. The betrayal was too deep, the shame too permanent. No ceremony could wash that away.

And the scandal it would bring to the Blackstone Pack… Malric nearly choked on the thought.

But this pup, his grandpup, would have Alpha blood. A direct heir to the Blackstone line. Even if Rosamund was never Luna, the child would be in line for the Alpha title. It would be unprecedented.

And utterly disastrous.

All of it, every ounce of the chaos, was Rowan’s fault.

Malric exhaled sharply, his voice rough. “Cassandra’s right. They have to reject each other. There’s no other way.”

Charles’s growl ripped through the air like a blade. “It’ll kill her.”

Malric turned to him, frowning. “What?”

Charles’s face was tight with fury. “Her heat is coming, the moment he marked her it set off the cycle… I noticed the change in her scent this morning”

Malric’s stomach dropped.

He let out a low groan knowing this wasn’t going to be pretty. “Then we have no choice.” He paced, restless and furious with the entire universe. “We’ll have to lock them both up. If her heat peaks while the bond is not fully broken and she’s unclaimed, every unmated male in the pack will feel it. It’ll start a war.”

Araminta and Cassandra paled.

“She has a mate,” he growled, stepping forward. “And because of your son, she’ll now go through the heat alone? In chains? Drugged? Is that your justice, Alpha? Hasn’t she suffered enough?”

Malric’s eyes narrowed, but not in anger. He understood.

There was no fight left in him. Only duty.

“We’ll sedate them both,” Malric added grimly. “Keep them under until it passes. There's nothing else we can do,” he said quietly. “But I promise you, she’ll be treated with dignity. I’ll assign our best healers. I’ll ensure she’s kept unconscious, and out of pain.”

“If I can’t challenge that dishonourable pup,” Charles growled, “then I have one demand.”

He leaned forward, voice full of fury and cold satisfaction.

“Don’t sedate him.”

Malric blinked.

“Chain him,” Charles said, voice razor-sharp. “Make him suffer. I want him to feel every second of her agony. Every cry. Every wave of heat. Every shred of the mate bond he tore apart.”

He gave a cruel smile. “Let him scream for it.”

Cassandra gasped, her face pale. “He’d destroy everything… everyone. If he senses her suffering, if the bond holds even a thread, he’ll tear through the pack to get to her.”

Charles didn’t flinch. “Then you better find thick chains.”

[silverhallow]

I have written a little follow up to Finally Found from Benophie Week.

She's a bit spicy:

It was a Thursday. There was no grand celebration, no champagne. Just a quiet evening in Benedict’s kitchen, the way they’d spent a thousand evenings before. Sophie was in a simple, summery blue dress, the kind she wore when she came straight from her work. They’d ordered takeaway, and the containers were scattered on the counter. They were laughing about something stupid, a meme, a memory, it didn’t matter. The laughter faded into one of those comfortable, warm silences that existed so easily between them.

Sophie went to put her plate in the sink. Benedict moved to get another beer from the fridge. Their paths crossed in the middle of the small kitchen.

“Oops,” she murmured, smiling up at him.

He smiled back, that easy, fond smile reserved only for her. On instinct, he opened his arms for a hug, a familiar, friendly gesture they’d shared a million times. She stepped into his embrace, resting her cheek against his chest, sighing contentedly. He wrapped his arms around her, his chin resting on the top of her head.

It was normal. It was them.

But tonight, something was different. The air felt charged. 

Maybe it was the way her body fit against his, a perfect, forgotten puzzle piece clicking into place. Maybe it was the scent of her shampoo, so familiar and suddenly intoxicating. Maybe it was the simple fact this secret love had become a living thing between them, too big to contain.

He pulled back slightly, just to look down at her. Her smile was soft, her dark eyes luminous in the low kitchen light. He meant to just… look, to take in her beautiful face, to see that smile again to break the hug.

But instead, he dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers, it was meant to be a peck. A friendly, silly, accidental thing.

It wasn’t.

The moment his lips touched hers, a circuit closed. A dam shattered. It was like a static shock that kept going, flooding their systems with a current of pure, undiluted want. Sophie froze for a nanosecond, then her lips parted on a gasp against his. 

That was all the invitation he needed.

The kiss deepened violently, hungrily. It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision. His arms tightened around her, crushing her to him. Her hands flew up, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. 

There was no thought, no hesitation, just twenty-three years of pent-up longing exploding into a frantic, consuming heat. Tongues clashed, teeth scraped. It was messy and desperate and perfect.

Benedict’s hands, which had been holding her gently, became possessive. One slid down her back, over the thin cotton of her dress, gripping her hip. The other came up, his fingers fumbling with the fabric at her shoulder before he simply grabbed the neckline of her dress and tugged. The sound of fabric tearing was obscenely loud in the quiet room.

He broke the kiss, breathing raggedly, his forehead pressed to hers. He looked down. The dress was torn, exposing the soft swell of her breast, the plain cup of her bra. The sight of her skin, bared like this, sent a fresh jolt of lust through him. He bent his head and took her breast into his mouth, fabric and all, sucking hard through the material.

Sophie cried out, her head falling back. It was too much. It wasn’t enough. She was drowning in sensation.

He straightened up, his blue eyes wild, darkened with a need he’d never let her see. “Soph,” he rasped, his voice almost unrecognisable. “I… God… is this… is this okay?”

She didn’t speak. She just nodded frantically, her own desire wiping all coherent thought clean. Yes. Yes. With you, always yes, was all that her mind was screaming.

That was all the consent he needed. In one swift motion, he hooked his hands under her thighs and lifted her. She was light in his arms, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He carried her the three steps to the kitchen table, sweeping the empty takeaway containers to the floor with a clatter he didn’t even hear.

He laid her back on the cool wood. The torn dress was rucked up around her waist. He stood between her spread legs, looking down at her, dishevelled, panting, beautiful, and his in this fractured, urgent moment.

He didn’t ask again. He didn’t need to. The frantic energy between them was enough of an answer

He dropped to his knees before the table, pulled her hips to the very edge, and buried his face between her legs, not even bothering to remove her underwear properly, just tugging it to one side.

He didn’t tease. He didn’t build slowly. He devoured her. His mouth was hot and hungry on her, his tongue spearing into her with a frantic rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart. He was a man possessed, tasting her for the first time, learning her intimately through a haze of pure, desperate passion. He licked and sucked, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her open for him.

Sophie’s world dissolved into pure, shocking sensation. This was nothing like she’d imagined. It was raw, and overwhelming, and utterly consuming. A high, keening sound tore from her throat as the pleasure built, swift and terrifying in its intensity. She’d never been touched like this, never known her body could feel this. Her hands scrabbled against the smooth tabletop, finding no purchase.

Her climax hit her like a train. It was a sharp, brutal, ecstatic convulsion that arched her back off the table. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound of release that echoed off the kitchen cabinets. Benedict didn’t stop. He rode her through it, his tongue gentling but persistent, lapping at her until she was sobbing from overstimulation, weakly pushing at his head.

He pulled back, his lips glistening. He looked up at her, wrecked and beautiful on his table. The truth hung between them, thick and unspoken in the air. He stood up, his own need a painful ache. The kitchen, the fallen containers, the torn dress, it was a scene of pure chaos. A chaos they’d created together.

Without a word, he scooped her up again, her body limp and pliant in his arms, and carried her towards the bedroom. The night was far from over. The dam was broken, and there was no going back.

He carried her down the short hall, her body light and boneless in his arms. Her face was buried in the crook of his neck, her breath hot and ragged against his skin. The frantic energy of the kitchen still thrummed between them, a live wire.

As he shouldered his way into his bedroom, a room of clean lines, books, and the familiar scent of him, Sophie stirred. She lifted her head. In the dim light from the streetlamp outside, her eyes were wide, dark pools of wonder and nervous anticipation.

“Here,” she whispered, her voice husky from screaming. “Put me down here.”

He did, gently lowering her feet to the floor beside his bed. She swayed slightly, her legs still unsteady. They stood facing each other, both breathing heavily, the reality of where they were and what was happening settling over them like a blanket. The torn dress hung off one shoulder. He was still fully clothed, painfully hard against his jeans.

He reached for her, his hand cupping her cheek. “Sophie,” he began, his voice rough. “We don’t have to… you’ve never…”

She placed her fingers over his lips, silencing him. Her touch was gentle, but her gaze was steady. “I know what this is,” she said softly. “And I know who you are. I trust you.”

Three words. I trust you. 

To Benedict, who had floated through fleeting connections and empty encounters, who had guarded his own heart as fiercely as he’d secretly cherished hers, those words were a seismic event. They meant more than ‘I love you’ could have in that moment. They were an offering of her whole self, her innocence, her safety, into his hands. His throat tightened. He couldn’t speak. He just nodded, his thumb stroking her cheekbone.

Then, with a shy determination that stole his breath, Sophie moved. She pushed gently at his chest until he sat on the edge of the mattress. She knelt on the floor between his spread legs, looking up at him. Her hands went to the buckle of his belt.

“Soph, you don’t…” he started, but she shook her head.

“I want to,” she said, simply. And he believed her. She’d always been a voracious learner. He knew she’d read things, knew she’d probably listened to friends. Her movements were clumsy but deliberate. She got his belt open, his button undone, his zip down. When she pulled his jeans and boxers down his hips, his cock sprang free, thick and eager.

She didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward and took him into her mouth.

It wasn't as expert as he’d experienced from so many of his lovers before, this was awkward, a little too toothy at first. But it was her, and the sight of Sophie, his best friend, the love of his live, on her knees for him, her dark hair falling around her face as she tried to take him deeper, was the most erotic thing Benedict had ever witnessed, and meant more to him than the most expert of blowjobs.

He groaned, his hands tangling in her hair, not guiding, just holding. She found a rhythm, her tongue exploring, her lips tightening. She was learning from him, giving him pleasure with a focused, earnest intensity that was uniquely Sophie.

The sensation was incredible, the build-up fierce. He was close, so close. But this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

“Stop,” he gasped, tugging gently on her hair. “Soph, stop. I want… I need to be inside you. For your first time. I need to feel you.”

She pulled back, her lips swollen and wet. She looked up at him, her eyes shining. “Okay.”

He stood, shucking off the rest of his clothes. He helped her to her feet, and carefully, reverently, removed her torn dress and underwear. She stood naked before him, bathed in the pale light, utterly beautiful and completely his.

He laid her back on the duvet, covering her body with his. The weight of him, the heat, the scent, it was everything she’d dreamed of and more terrifyingly real. He reached for her, his hands trembling slightly.

“Is this…?” he asked again, holding it, giving her one last chance to set the boundary.

She reached up and touched his face. “I trust you,” she repeated, her voice a soft, unshakeable promise.

He positioned himself at her entrance. He looked into her eyes. “It might…. Hurt”

“Just do it,” she breathed, her legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer. “I want you, Ben. I’ve always wanted you.” She hadn’t meant to say those last few words, they tumbled from her unbound and unrestrained, the words he needed to her. To know she wanted this as much as he did.

He pushed inside her.

There was resistance, a tight, breathtaking stretch, a sharp intake of breath from her that made him freeze. He kissed her, swallowing her gasp, waiting. When her body relaxed, he sank deeper, filling her completely. 

They both cried out then, a shared sound of shock and profound completion. He was buried inside his best friend, the love of his life, and she was letting him, welcoming him, trusting him, was enough to make him nearly cum there and then but he stealed himself. Knowing he had to make this last, to make this good for her as much as it was for him.

He began to move. It wasn’t gentle or slow. The passion that had ignited them in the kitchen hadn’t died; it had only banked, waiting for this ultimate joining. His thrusts were deep, powerful, and desperate. Hers were eager, meeting him with an instinctual rhythm that belied her inexperience. It was a fierce, physical conversation of years of longing. The bed rocked, the headboard tapped the wall, something Benedict didn’t realise it did having never brought any of his partners into his room before. Their skin slapped together, their breaths came in ragged sobs and guttural groans.

“You feel… God, Sophie…” Benedict choked out, his forehead pressed to hers.

She couldn’t form words. She could only feel the stretch, the friction, the overwhelming rightness of it. Her second orgasm built, coiling tighter and hotter than the first. 

When it broke, it was a silent, shattering wave that squeezed him tightly, milking his own release from him.

He came with a broken shout of her name, slamming into her one last time, pulsing deep within her.

And then… he didn’t move.

He stayed there, buried to the hilt inside her, his body heavy on hers. His breathing gradually slowed. 

To his shock, he felt himself still hard, still full within her, as if his body refused to acknowledge the climax, refusing to separate from hers.

“Ben?” she whispered, her hands stroking his sweat-slicked back.

“Don’t… don’t move,” he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn’t name. “Just… stay. Just for a minute.” Stay with me. Always stay.

He kissed her shoulder, her neck. He was still inside her. He was still hers. 

But in the quiet aftermath, with Benedict still buried inside her, Sophie’s mind began to clear. The haze of pleasure and shock receded, and reality, cold and sharp, seeped in.

This was a mistake.

The thought was a splinter of ice in her chest. 

He was Benedict. 

Her Benedict. 

Who didn’t do relationships, who floated from person to person with charming, detached ease. He’d never kept anyone. He’d certainly never kept her in that way. Tonight was a beautiful, catastrophic accident born of proximity and years of repressed… something. It wasn’t love. It couldn’t be. He hadn’t said it. He would have said it.

But God, she had wanted this. More than anything in her life. And now she had it. A piece of him. A memory. And she would be damned if she let it end now, while his body was still warm and joined to hers, while the ghost of his pleasure still pulsed around him inside her.

Whereas Benedict’s thoughts were the opposite, he thought this was the start. 

But in her mind Sopgie knew it was the end. And she was going to gorge herself on it.

Feeling him still hard within her, a flicker of desperate hope ignited. She shifted her hips, a tiny, experimental rock.

Benedict groaned, a low, visceral sound. He’d been lost in his own revelation, feeling the rightness of their connection, the permanence of it. Her movement was an electric shock. He lifted his head to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her expression one of deep concentration, as if memorizing a feeling.

“Soph?” he whispered.

“Don’t talk,” she murmured, her voice thick. She rocked again, more deliberately this time, creating a slow, delicious friction. “Just… don’t stop.”

He didn’t need telling twice. He began to move with her, a slow, deep roll of his hips. It was different from the frantic pace of their first time. This was languid, exploratory, a rediscovery. He kissed her, long and deep, as they found a new rhythm. He could feel her tightening around him again already, her body hungry and responsive.

“You’re incredible,” he breathed against her lips, the words spilling out, raw and true.

She didn’t reply. She just clutched him tighter, her nails digging into his shoulders, as if she could anchor him here forever.

This time, when she came, it was a rolling, shuddering wave that made her sob into his mouth. He rode it out, then, with a strength that made her gasp, he flipped them over so she was straddling him.

“Your turn to drive,” he said, his hands guiding her hips, his eyes burning up at her with a possessive joy he didn’t bother to hide.

Sophie looked down at him, at the man she loved more than life, and let the heartbreak fuel her. She rose and fell on him, taking him deeper than she thought possible, learning the angle, the pace. He watched her, enthralled, his hands roaming her body, thumbs circling her nipples, dipping between their joined bodies to find her clit.

He was an expert, and he used every skill for her now. He showed her how to lean back, how to grind against him. He guided her onto her hands and knees, taking her from behind, his hands possessive on her hips, his mouth on her shoulder. With each new position, he whispered encouragement, filthy praise, and she absorbed it all, each word a treasure to hoard for the lonely days ahead.

The second round lasted an eternity. Benedict orchestrated her pleasure like a maestro, his fingers, his mouth, his cock working in concert until she lost count of her orgasms. They were smaller, brighter, rippling through her one after another until she was a trembling, whimpering mess, utterly spent and gloriously used.

Finally, he laid her on her back again, driving into her with a final, relentless intensity. His own climax this time was slower, deeper, a full-body surrender. He came with her name on his lips, a prayer and a promise, collapsing onto her completely.

This time, he softened. They were a tangled, sweaty, exhausted heap of limbs. Silence descended, broken only by their ragged breaths.

Sophie’s heart ached with a sweet, terrible pain. She had gotten her fill. More than her fill. 

It had been perfect. And now it was over. She closed her eyes, memorising the weight of him, the scent of sex and his skin, the feel of his heartbeat against hers.

Benedict, meanwhile, was delirious. Spent, exhausted, but utterly, profoundly happy. He held the woman he loved in his arms, sated and beautiful. She had been insatiable, eager, and perfect. His. 

He didn’t need to say it aloud. The night had said it for them. This was it. The search was over. He finally had everything he never knew he was looking for, right here in his arms. He kissed her damp forehead, a smile touching his lips as he drifted towards sleep, assuming she felt the same radiant certainty.

He had no idea she was already mourning, that she thought they’d lost control… and that this was a mistake.

[silverhallow]

I’m kind of toying with the idea of writing a Soul-Mates Benophie AU

Would people be interested??

[silverhallow]

We may have TWO new stories tomorrow…

Stories I’ve already talked about and have completed even though one I’m still editing…

And if given enough demands… I could be persuaded to share sneak peeks of the first chapters later today…

[silverhallow]

I contacted this blog (a famous blog) and not anonymously, and I was nice and I was like, "This is X of my creation and it's included Tilley. Just so you know bc you started following me." And I ended up getting blocked.

I’ve no idea what’s going on

[silverhallow]

i love benophie and against Tilley hate

I’m not sure what’s been going on in the fandom lately as I’ve been sort of busy but anyone giving Tilley hate is just ridiculous.

Benedict needed that moment of growth, thinking he wanted something serious only to then realise he didn’t and opened himself up to new experiences and learning about himself was necessary to find his way to Sophie…

I do not approve of any Tilley hate

[sophedicts]

There’s something so profound about the line “The reality of you has become more tantalizing than any fantasy ever could be” that will always, always make me emotional when the quote is essentially Benedict telling Sophie that to know you is to love you more, and more, and more…

It resonates even deeper when you reflect back on Benedict’s character arc in s3 and how he initially believed he wanted something more serious with Lady Tilley—that is, until the novelty of the arrangement wore off, the mystery/intrigue behind meeting a new, interesting person was gone, and he realized how much else there was out there that he wanted to discover on his own. Simply put, knowing her more didn’t make Benedict want her more; quite the contrary, we saw this inverse relationship occur where she became more attached over time as she got to know him, while he became even more independent and averse to commitment. When the glimmer and allure of fantasy dissipated (when she suddenly became “attainable” after confessing her feelings for him and asking him to commit to her), it left Benedict with this restless need to keep exploring and blindly seeking out the next thrill, opening up a world of possibility and a thirst for something outside of her. Her eventual vulnerability and candidness with him pushed him to distance himself rather than grow closer to her, which is in stark contrast to him feeling so drawn to Sophie the more he learned about her in s4, even as she instinctively pushed him away out of self-preservation (“What has happened ever since I met you has made me realize how good it feels to be free” vs "The thought of spending a single day without you torments my soul.”) While meeting Tilley only reminded Benedict how much he valued personal freedom/independence, being with Sophie shined a light on his own loneliness/disconnect from others, feeling tortured and in agony at the mere prospect of being separated from her.

There’s such a drastic shift in perspective in s4 when he self-deprecatingly refers to himself as a “free spirit,” underscoring how Benedict no longer wants to be as “free” as he once believed he wanted to be. Instead, he wants to be with Sophie and only Sophie—the person who, quite fittingly, makes him feel the most empowered he’s ever been, no longer forced to navigate this world on his own anymore. Commitment to her, he discovers, provides him with the greatest sense of belonging and liberation rather than serving as a cage to tie him down.

This sentiment is reflected in his adamant denial that Sophie is like “that kite in [his] study,” someone he is passionate and intrigued about one day but will forget about the next. She is not a passing fancy, not a fleeting distraction, not something he wants to “fix” momentarily and then discard/tuck away/forget about once it has lost its initial appeal.

The more he knows Sophie, the more he dreams about her, and the more he falls in love with her…the reality of her only feeds into his fantasies instead of dispelling the illusions altogether: “I cannot think of a maid every waking hour, longing for a life with her, and yet you have taken possession of me. Shot me back to life. Turned me from someone who could not sit still for a moment to one who wishes to be in one single place: beside you, for as long as I might live.” We concluded s3 with Benedict expressing to Eloise that “the next thing [he] might learn may change [him] entirely”…and then in s4 we are shown just how much meeting Sophie has changed him entirely, shaking him to his core and uprooting his entire belief system/way of life.

We see how the narrative progresses from the Lady in Silver being “the most intriguing person” Benedict has ever met in 4x01, to him turning away from this idealized, enchanting fantasy woman and choosing the reality of Sophie with all her flaws, scars, and vulnerabilities in 4x04—vulnerabilities that make him desire her even more instead of giving him ample reason to flee from her. Her vulnerability allows him the strength and courage to open up and expose his own scars, revealing to her just how deeply isolated he feels in spite of the carefree facade he puts on. (“And now I have found someone I love more than I could even have thought possible. Someone captivating and maddening and real.”) Whereas in s3 he felt compelled to hide his identity as an artist in front of others, Sophie is the one person who instantly recognizes the essence of who Benedict is at a core, fundamental level without him needing to say a word, giving him the inspiration/conviction he needs to reignite his passions and, in turn, feel the most like himself he’s felt for so long.

Through her, he learns that there is immense fulfillment to be found in seeking out hidden depths vs choosing not to see or be seen beyond an attractive veneer. He discovers the beauty in the vulnerability, rawness, and messiness that comes with embracing one’s flawed, authentic, unguarded self—to be wholly seen and loved all the more for it. This is such a distinct departure for someone who was once constantly enamored with fantasy and sanitized, surface-level perceptions of people, often swept up in pretty, lofty dreams not grounded in harsher realities.

His compulsive need to run away from the unvarnished truth of a person (not wanting to delve deeper and commit to knowing someone in their entirety + to being known in return) completely shifts in s4, when the narrative revolves around Benedict chasing that truth and FIGHTING for it rather than passively allowing others’ actions to dictate his own response. So unlike the free-spirited reveler of past seasons, he repeatedly begs Sophie to let him stay and be there for her (“No! I’m not going anywhere. Not this time. I’m here for you.”), desperately wanting to be granted the privilege of knowing her and being trusted with that truth, trusted to cherish ALL aspects of her, especially the parts that she tries to hide from him. No longer is he the type of man to flee from commitment and responsibility to another person because he doesn’t trust them enough to want to reciprocate that vulnerability/trust that he is capable of remaining steadfast and devoted to a single person.

The more he discovers about Sophie, the more captivated he is, and the more he feels encouraged to expose his own insecurities for the sake of growing closer to her. The novelty never wears off for him—if anything, she becomes more intriguing, more exciting, more desirable, more lovable over time […something about Luke Thompson reading that John Keats quote “I love you ever and ever, without reserve…You are always new.”]

Benedict fervently conveying to Sophie “Of course he [loved you]. How could anyone not?” after she reads her father’s will shows that he genuinely finds it mind-boggling how anyone could know Sophie and not love her. Through his actions and words, he expresses his unwavering admiration and devotion to her again and again: Knowing you is loving you, and loving you is both a freedom and a privilege, a thrill and a refuge, a choice and an inevitability.

[silverhallow]

Couldn’t have put this better myself 🩶🩶