#benophie

[the-other-art-blog]

I'll never get over how innocently happy they are after their kiss at the lake. They're literally this emoji 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

This is all the medicine Benedict needed.

[boringyouwasi]

This was inspired by *that* picture of Yerin Ha in a backless halter top in some London park, and the few clips we got of Luke Thompson rubbing her back during the press tour. I'm fine, I'm fine, totally fine (Ross Geller voice).

Hands to Myself

The halter top was an act of war.

Black, backless, two triangle straps that tied behind her neck and left everything else bare down to the curve of her lower back. Sophie sat cross-legged on the picnic blanket beside him, leaning forward to grab a cracker from the charcuterie board Penelope had assembled with frankly alarming dedication, and the entire topography of her spine was just there. Sun-warm and golden. The shoulder blades shifting under skin so smooth it looked like someone had retouched her in post.

Benedict ate a grape. Then another grape. Then a third grape he didn't actually want because his hands needed a task that wasn't touching his girlfriend's back in front of eight people and a labradoodle.

He lasted approximately one Bad Bunny song.

His fingers found the dip above her jeans first. Automatic, gravitational, the way his hand always found a pencil during a lecture or a brush during a blank thought. He pressed his palm flat against her lower back, where the fabric ended and bare skin began, and the warmth of her soaked through his hand like sunlight through glass. She didn't flinch. She didn't even acknowledge it; she just kept talking to Penelope about something — a sample sale, a designer he should probably know but couldn't name right now because his thumb was tracing the ridge of her spine and it was genuinely, physiologically impossible to hold two thoughts simultaneously when Sophie Baek's skin was under his hand.

He dragged his thumb upward slowly, following the groove between the muscles of her back, counting vertebrae like rosary beads. Her skin was ridiculous. Absurd. The kind of smooth that made him want to grind up every tube of titanium white, yellow ochre, and cadmium red he owned and start mixing from scratch because clearly he'd been painting skin wrong his entire life.

She leaned into his hand. A micro-adjustment that could have been posture and could have been permission.

His palm spread wider. He rubbed a slow circle between her shoulder blades, his fingers skating up to the nape of her neck where the halter straps crossed and knotted, then back down to the warm dip of her lower back. Up again. Down again. The repetition was hypnotic. Self-soothing, almost, if self-soothing involved someone else's body and a borderline public indecency charge.

"Benedict." Alfie, sprawled on his stomach with a can of Saint Monday balanced on the grass beside him, lifted his sunglasses. "You good?"

"Spectacular."

"You've been rubbing her back for five straight minutes."

"Have I?"

"Like a man polishing a very expensive car he can't believe he's been allowed to drive."

"That's a disgusting metaphor and I reject it entirely."

"You're doing it right now, while rejecting it. Your hand hasn't stopped moving."

It hadn't. His fingers were tracing the line of her ribs, feather-light, skating the edge of where the fabric sat. Sophie took a sip of her drink and said, without turning around, "He does this. It's like living with a very large cat who's discovered a warm surface."

"I am not a cat."

"You literally kneaded my back in your sleep last night."

Celia cackled from somewhere to his left. Colin, mid-construction of an absurd four-meat sandwich, grinned at him with the brotherly delight that meant this would be brought up at Christmas. John, who'd been chatting to Hazel, tipped his beer in Benedict's direction with a small, knowing smile. Even Eloise, deep in a monologue about the gentrification of Hackney Wick that she'd been delivering at Penelope's patient, nodding face, paused long enough to give Benedict a withering look.

He should stop. He was going to stop. He was a grown man with impulse control and a basic understanding of social—

The sun hit Sophie's shoulder, and the slope where her neck met the muscle was exactly the shade he'd been trying to mix for weeks, a warm bronze with an undertone of something almost copper, and the smell of her caramel and pistachio body butter mingled with cut grass, and she tilted her head slightly to the right, exposing the full, catastrophic line of her neck, and his brain simply dissolved.

He leaned down and bit her shoulder.

Gently. A soft, close-mouthed nip, his teeth catching the muscle, his lips pressing warm against her skin for one, two seconds.

Sophie went completely still.

The silence lasted approximately half a second before the park detonated.

"OH MY GOD." Hazel, loud enough to startle the labradoodle. "Did he just— Celia, did you see that? He bit her. He bit her."

"Like a vampire," Celia confirmed.

"In broad daylight," Alfie confirmed, sitting up. "At a picnic. During hummus hours."

"In front of my charcuterie," Penelope added, typing on her phone, probably live-tweeting to her followers. "I hand-selected that bresaola."

"Benedict." Colin set his sandwich down. "Mate."

"It was barely— I just—" The heat hit his ears first. Both of them, simultaneously, a furious crimson that climbed upward and outward until his entire face was, he was certain, the colour of Penelope's sun-dried tomatoes. "It was a— I was looking at the— the light was—"

"He's blaming the light," Eloise said flatly. "He bit his girlfriend in public and he's blaming the light."

"The light was doing something to her shoulder—"

"The light." Eloise closed her eyes. "Everyone, the light made him do it. The light is the perpetrator. Benedict is the victim here."

"Like a golden retriever," Hazel said, shaking her head. "A golden retriever who sees a really nice ankle and just goes for it."

"I am not a golden retriever. Golden retrievers are—"

"Better behaved," Alfie finished.

"Have more restraint," Colin added.

"Understand the concept of public decency," Eloise contributed.

John, who had been watching the entire spectacle with quiet amusement, leaned over to inspect Sophie's shoulder. "You've left a mark."

Benedict looked. A faint red crescent on her skin, with a small smudge of Carmex beside it. He wanted the canal to rise up and take him.

Sophie, through all of this, had remained perfectly still. Her drink in her hand. Her face angled slightly away. Her ears were pink. When she finally turned, her expression was serene in the way that meant she was exercising superhuman restraint over whatever was happening underneath.

"You done?" she asked.

"I am so sorry—"

"You're not sorry."

"I'm mortified."

"Those are different things."

She was right. He was mortified and sunburnt at the ears and absolutely, fundamentally, not sorry at all.

"Right!" Colin stood, brushing crumbs off his shorts with the kind of energy that was seizing control of a deteriorating situation. "Frisbee. Now. Before he escalates to a full mauling."

The group split. Colin, Alfie, and Celia on one team; Eloise, John and Benedict on the other. Sophie, Hazel and Penelope stayed on the blanket. Sophie claimed a shoulder injury. Benedict did not miss the irony.

The frisbee game was barely governed by rules or physics. Alfie threw overhand every single time with the unearned confidence of someone who'd never once completed a successful throw. Colin played like there were scouts watching. John was effortlessly good, plucking the disc from the air with one hand and flicking it back with a neat sidearm. Eloise played like she was settling a personal vendetta.

Benedict played like a man whose girlfriend was lying on her stomach twenty metres away with her chin propped on her crossed arms and the full, sunlit expanse of her bare back pointed directly at him like a weapon. He missed two easy catches, ran into Eloise, and took a frisbee to the side of the head that Celia swore was accidental.

"FOCUS," Eloise shouted.

"I'm focused."

"You've been hit in the head, you nearly flattened me, and you're looking at the blanket again. That's the opposite of focus. That's anti-focus. That's the heat death of focus."

"I'm just checking—"

"You're checking out your hot girlfriend. We know. The entire park knows. The labradoodle knows."

They played until the light went amber and the Saint Monday went warm. The group drifted back in stages, flopping onto the grass, reaching for whatever was left of Penelope's spread. Benedict's shirt was damp with sweat, his hair stuck to his forehead, and he'd grass-stained both knees, which Sophie would have something to say about later because they were her favourite jeans on him, on account of what they did to his bum.

The group was packing up. Penelope was stacking Tupperware. Alfie was trying to fold the blanket into a shape that fit inside his backpack. Hazel was telling a story about a man on the Northern line. Everyone was standing, milling, half-paying-attention.

Sophie appeared beside him.

She leaned against his arm. Her hand slipped into the back pocket of his jeans, her palm warm through the denim, and she squeezed. Not casually or ambiguously. A full, firm, intentional grip on his arse that sent his entire nervous system into blue-screen-of-death.

He made a quiet, strangled sound — the kind of noise that would have been socially annihilating if anyone had been listening.

No one was listening. Thank god.

She pressed her lips to his cheek, quick and dry, and the caramel of her body butter and the strawberry on her breath hit him at the same time. "That's for the bite," she murmured. Then she was gone, walking over to Hazel and Celia, her loose jeans sitting low on her hips, the triangle straps of the halter catching the last of the sun.

She didn't look back.

Benedict stood in Victoria Park with a warm handprint burning through his back pocket and his ears, still, catastrophically red, and watched her laugh at something Hazel said while the canal turned copper in the fading light.

[wonderlandleighleigh]

can we have a double date between benophie and kanthony? something like the ice cream scene with polin, fran and john in the most recent season? 👀

Anthony stare at Benedict.

Benedict stares at Anthony.

They have been at the gentleman's club for all of twenty minutes, and have somehow run out of things to talk about.

As brothers who are only a year apart, it was bound to happen at some point.

Benedict blows out a breath and looks around the room before looking back at Anthony. "Do you miss Kate?"

Anthony blinks. "In what way?"

"Right now," Benedict clarifies. "Sitting here."

Anthony thinks about that for a long moment, before giving him a slow nod. "Yes. I do."

"I miss Sophie," Benedict admits. "This place is dull, and filled with unhappily married men. Would you like to go home and have a nightcap with our wives?"

Anthony laughs a little and nods again. "Actually, I would."

So they do.

*****

Benedict pours each of them a glass of brandy and then sits with Sophie, wrapping an arm around her. "So, how bad was it?"

"Atrocious," Kate tells him as she takes a sip of her brandy. "I have never been to a ball that felt like a funeral before."

"Even the lemonade tasted sad," Sophie agrees. "I felt awful for Rosamund, but Araminta just does not know how to throw a ball to...to entice people. The music was not danceable, the queen neglected to show her face..."

"I fear we should have gone with you," Anthony tells her. "Perhaps we could have made things better."

Benedict purses his lips.

"What?" Kate asks him.

He grins a little.

Sophie nudges him. "No."

"Why not?!" Benedict cries, laughing.

"I am missing something," Anthony says, perplexed.

"We both are," Kate says. "What are you talking about?"

""Benedict wants to...be...intimate. With me. In Araminta's home. As revenge," Sophie tells them, flushing hard.

Kate's mouth opens in shock, as Anthony grins slowly at his brother.

"I do enjoy how petty that is," he says.

"Yes!" Benedict enthuses. "Terrible petty to find pleasure in that woman's home. Loudly. Possibly in her bedroom."

Kate gives a startled laugh. "Benedict!"

Sophie shakes her head. "Do you see what I married?"

"It would be for you!" he insists. "In so many ways."

Sophie shoves his face playfully. "Drink your drink and stop being scandalous. If we were caught, we would be run out of London."

"Oh, nooooo," Benedict mutters into his glass. "We would have to away to our lovely country home where I do not have to share you with my mother and sisters or society..."

"Oh, god, please do not abandon us this season," Kate groans. "Your mother is dying to marry off Eloise, and it is close to all-out war. Sophie is one of the only people Eloise listens to."

"Yes, you married and abandoned spinsterhood, so she no longer trusts you," Anthony jokes.

"You are not far off," Kate chuckles. "That is all your fault, by the way."

"Hardly," Anthony argues. "You are to blame."

"Me?!"

"There they go again," Benedict mutters, leaning into Sophie.

Sophie giggles and cuddles into Benedict. "I do not wish to be caught by Araminta, you know. I just wish to...to let it all go. And just be happy."

Benedict nods and kisses her temple. "Then you will."

"Why is there not a club for married couples to sit and socialize like this?" Anthony asks, puzzled, coming out of their mild spat. "We were looking around the gentleman's club tonight, feeling as though we were also at a funeral, because the two of you were not there."

"Because men are not supposed to enjoy time with their wives," Kate reminds him. "Marriages are by and large business transactions. Remember? Wives are to be, what was it? 'wed, bed and bred' so husbands can turn to more enjoyable pursuits?"

Benedict blinks at Anthony. "Tell me you did not say that."

"I did not!" Anthony cries. "But...someone in my presence did, and Kate heard it. And she has never let me live down not arguing the point."

"Wed, bed, and bred," Benedict ponders. "At least it rhymes."

"It sounds lonely," Sophie comments. "My father and Araminta were much like that in the end. Barely speaking to each other. I think they both imagined themselves happier."

"I think everyone does," Anthony nods as he sips more brandy. "Our father used to say that marriages were...were machines to be calibrated and tuned and looked after. You have to want to. You have to care."

Kate smiles at him and takes his hand. "And is that what you believe?"

Anthony nods firmly. "It is. Wholeheartedly."

Kate gazes at him a beat longer.

Anthony takes a breath and turns to Benedict and Sophie. "I think it is time we turned in."

"Speaking of calibration," Benedict mutters playfully, earning a nudge from Sophie. "Goodnight, brother, goodnight, sister." He gets to his feet, hugging both Anthony and Kate. "See you in the morning."

"Probably not too early," Anthony tells him, earning him a nudge from Kate.

Sophie does the same, watching them go with a wave, before turning to Benedict. "You missed me tonight."

"I always miss you when you are not at my side," he reminds her. "My beautiful, clever wife."

She smiles and tugs him into a soft kiss. "And what of us? Do you think we require some calibration of our own?"

Benedict chuckles against her lips. "I am all for it."

[sexualanachronism]

Wake up.

How much have you had to drink?

[wonderlandleighleigh]

i hope you feel better soon!!

as for prompts, maybe enganged benophie attending posy's wedding? (assuming posy is already married in the epilogue)

It's a lovely ceremony. Posy and Eugene Barnaby are so very happy, standing there, beaming with joy at each other.

Sophie holds Benedict's hand, sitting on the bride's side in the church, beaming as the couple share a sweet kiss at the altar.

"That will be us soon enough," Benedict whispers to her.

In front of them, Araminta clears her throat ever-so-slightly, and Sophie's shoulders slump just a little.

This is the way it will be. The way it will always be. They will have to endure each other. To pretend as if nothing horrible ever happened between them.

Benedict makes things easier. She feels his thumb brush against the back of her hand soothingly.

The wedding breakfast is held at Barnaby House, and Posy bypasses both her mother and sister to hug Sophie tightly.

"Congratulations, Posy," Sophie giggles, hugging her back. "I am so thrilled for you. You look beautiful today."

Posy smiles, elated, still hugging her, paying no mind to Rosamund's muttered words about the color of her dress "Thank you, Sister. Thank you for being here for today."

"I would not dream of missing it," Sophie assures her, rubbing her arms.

"And soon we will be attending your wedding!" Posy cries excitedly.

"You will not be attending," Araminta commands. "None of us will."

"Of course we will," Eugene says as she steps up to them, taking Posy's hand. "Sophie and Benedict have been so supportive through our engagement. We must return the favor, musn't we, Posy?"

"Yes!" Posy beams. "We must." She turns to Araminta, her smile turning into a look a determination. "I must. Mother."

Araminta stares at her daughter for a long moment, before turning and storming off, Rosamund in her wake, looking back at Posy with something like...

Like jealousy.

Posy frowns as she watches them, but takes a breath and turns back to Benedict, Sophie and Eugene, putting on a smile. "I hope you will have something to eat. I picked everything out, and-"

"Posy," Sophie says gently, taking her hands. "It is alright."

"I know," Posy nods. "I know. She can no longer tell me what to do. I now...I now have a husband for that."

"I have no desire to boss you around," Eugene reminds her gently. "Remember? We are in this together, you and I. And whatever your mother thinks, she is more than welcome to think it to herself."

Posy nods.

"Do you need anything, Posy?" Benedict asks. "Wine, maybe? Or something to eat?"

"I am well, thank you," Posy assures him. "But that is very kind." She turns to Sophie again. "We are both very lucky to have found kind men."

Sophie smiles and nods. "I think so, too."

*****

They arrive back at Bridgerton house later, and Sophie would like nothing more than to crawl into Benedict's bed and curl up on top of him; sleep with her face pressed in against his chest.

"You look exhausted," Benedict tells her.

"I am," Sophie admits. "I am so very happy for Posy. But...the stress of being around Araminta."

He nods and wraps his arms around her, rubbing her side. "She has already sent her regrets to the wedding invitation we sent. So she will not be there, thank god. Nor Rosamund."

"I was sad about Rosamund," Sophie admits. "I thought, perhaps..."

"I know," he says, pressing a tender kiss to the side of her head. "What can I do?"

Sophie sighs and looks around the empty front hall. There isn't anywhere here, currently, in the late afternoon. It's strangely quiet. She reaches up and kisses him softly, gripping his arms.

He makes a pleased noise, returning the kiss, gathering her closer.

She pulls away and smiles. "We should not."

He blows out a slow breath and nods, scratching the back of his neck. "I know."

"You should go back to your bachelor lodgings," she tells him quietly.

"I know that, too." His eyebrows raise for a moment. "But...we could always sneak up to my room here...spend some time..."

"Your mother will come looking," Sophie reminds him. "Or one of your siblings."

"But what if they do not?" he says.

"Benedict..."

"I miss you," he admits softly. "We are still a few months from our own wedding, and I constantly dream of you in my bed. In my arms."

Sophie feels a flush creep up her cheeks. "I...I do, too."

"When we are married, I am locking the bedroom door and throwing away the key," he promises. "I will keep you in my bed for as long as I like."

"Our bed," she corrects, gazing into his eyes.

Benedict stares back at her for a long, silent moment, before pulling her into a more urgent kiss, hungry and a little desperate, cupping her face.

It's when someone clears their throat behind him.

Sophie pulls away quickly and whirls around, breathing hard.

"How was the wedding?" Anthony asks as he makes his way to the study.

"Good!" Benedict tells him. "It was-it was good."

Anthony pats his shoulder. "Good." He nods to Sophie. "I shall see you at dinner."

"Yes," she croaks out, still flushed. "Of course." She almost curtsies, but stops herself.

"I...I should..." Benedict rubs his face. "I shall call on you tomorrow."

Sophie turns to him and nods, watching him as if she could eat him. "Yes."

He nods, leaning in and kissing her cheek, before heading back for the door and his horse.

Sophie watches him go and slumps against the wall.

[lukeyerinpost]

"You are the best actress of this generation"

Robert Pattinson

Luke Thompson always praising Yerin at the first opportunity

parallels that fascinate me

[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.