Archive of Our Own

Slow down, slow down to the feeling
Wait up, wait there if you see me
Come back, come back to the moment

The night he meets her it’s filled in autumn rain. 

She is a lighthouse, in the middle of the storm. Benedict had found the bookstore by accident, looking for shelter as he carried his heavy bags now filled in his ruined paintings. That was all, really. He is very uninterested, right now, in any sort of reading. (He is tired too, and helpless). So when he enters the little, dusty store with its walls covered in old books to the roof and the radio humming a low and honey-like jazz, he does not expect to find her.

Like a light, she truly is. 

She is crouched on the corner, her hair a dark river falling on a side of her shoulder, her eyes shining in happiness. (Endless). It is as if all the joy in the world is liquified in her gaze. She giggles to herself, and at the books, as if they hold their own secret language he can not possibly decipher. (She’s in her own world, all alone in this dusty store). Benedict feels as if he’s intruding something forbidden, but he cannot move. He doesn’t want to—not when his tired, washed heart filled in cement begins drumming again on his chest, just by the mere sight of her ordinary, simple happiness. 

Her smile is dewy, like a new-bloom lily.

Benedict wants to live on this portrait of her forever, but he cannot. Not when she suddenly notices him—her eyes blinking in surprise.

“Oh,” she says, her voice undisturbed, but gentle. “Welcome, sir.”

Benedict blinks back.

“Ah...”

He does not respond. “May I ask what you’re looking for?” She presses kindly.

“Sorry?” His mind is slow, tired. (He does not even notice how raspy his voice sounds).

The girl, this fluttering light, only tilts her head. (Adorable, he thinks). She does not seem bothered by him, though, or exasperated. (It is as if she’s used to waiting like this, serving and lingering). 

“Yes. What kind of books are you interested in?” 

In nothing, really. (But he cannot say).

He cannot say that just hours ago, he learned that his eldest brother paid for his place at the Art Academy—that from that moment he walked away, never to come back, and that he swam, defeated, under the storm until he found this small bookstore as the only place to shelter himself. Benedict did not mean to overhear it. (All his thoughts were drowned, while he worked on his own sketch, in the bliss of his ignorant happiness). It came from another student, a boy from a family less important than his—and the mock in his whisper, which was meant for another artist to hear, made his muscles suddenly weigh on him like bags of cement.

The rest was an oiled shadow. All blurry in his mind.

(First, his words demanding that boy an explanation. Next, his own voice echoing in his ears while he argued with Anthony over the phone. Then the hurried packing of sketches, unused brushes, papers, Then the rain, and defeat, and the dusty books).

“Oh… I…” Benedict rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling strange and awkward. “I don’t really know.” He lets out a small, nervous laugh. “Maybe you could recommend something to me?”

Her inexpressiveness breaks into a blooming smile—as if this sort of question happens to be her favorite.

“I have the book just for you.”

She disappears in the sea of books. When she returns, dusty and merry, she places a small, old hardcover edition on his palms. Benedict has to force himself away from her pretty eyes to look down at her precious offering.

Lord Byron. 

(As if his day couldn’t get any darker).

His eyes return to hers, and she looks oh so very proud—with a big, beautiful smile. (The first time he has seen her so expressive since the five minutes he known her). She glimmers. There’s joy swimming in her focused eyes, her enthusiasm evident and without any shame. 

Benedict finds that he cannot say no to her. He cannot be the reason why her excitement whiters away. (He experienced that same feeling a few hours ago, after all). Besides, there’s this strange, foreign and nostalgic sensation of satisfaction of learning this side about her. 

His fingers brush hers when he takes the book she found for him.

“Thank you.”

That's all he can say, but it’s enough, because her smile is like warm bread and his heart hurts a little bit less now, at this very moment.

His light can only nod at him, then guide him to the cash register. He really is going to buy something from Byron. He has just found that his spot at his dream school was bought, that he was the living clown of every other artist all this time, he got drenched under the rain, and now he’s buying terrible written poetry.

Benedict can only think that this book seller has become a small blessing sent by a minor god.

She types his name for a member card. (She asks him if he would like to, and of course, he says yes, even if he rarely reads books). When she asks for his number and his address to type on the card, he wishes it was in a different context—and when she asks for his name, he hesitates for a moment.

“Benedict,” he says, his gaze moving to a corner, thinking before he really thinks well. “Uh, Ledger. Benedict Ledger.”

He feels himself unable to pronounce the name that just made everyone laugh at him hours ago.

She can only hum in response, and Benedict is thankful that she does not recognize him from any media, or that maybe she doesn't even know the Bridgerton name at all.

“Very well,” she sighs, happy and pleased, her voice a soft chiffon. “Almost done, sir.”

Sir. 

Benedict licks his lips, impatient for something he cannot decipher. Her eyes are on him, expectedly, and when he understands he looks for his wallet. He looks, and looks, and looks. And he forgot it back at the academy, or lost it on the street.

He really has lost all the charm he ever owned tonight, hasn’t he?

Benedict feels a hole under his feet, when he has to look at her hopeful eyes.

“Please forgive it seems that…” He scratches his head, awkward and regretful. “It seems that I don’t have my wallet with me.”

“Oh..." That is all she says.

Silence. 

Benedict closes his eyes, ashamed—his family has all the money to buy him a spot in his dream art school, and he has no money for a book. It was enough feeling humiliation today, and now the last thing he ever wants to do is to disappoint the only person that has been kind to him tonight. 

But her voice returns—gentle.

“Well… I could lend it to you,” she suggests, almost shyly. “You can come back and pay for it later.”

His head lifts in surprise, her eyes glassy in honesty, meaning every word.

“You would trust me like that?”

At this, she grins teasingly, coquettishly, in a way that makes him blush like a nervous teenage boy. She wiggles the small card she has just made for his membership. “I have your contact information, remember?”

She places the card against her lips, her eyes peeking at him, and Benedict laughs for the first time today. He glances around the small shop again, his eyes traveling over the quiet shelves and the dusty corners—he wonders briefly if she even gets that many customers, and if perhaps that’s why she’s willing to risk her precious recommendation to him. But he does not voice those thoughts, of course, and when he nods, her beaming smile returns. She places the book carefully into a simple paper bag and holds it out to him.

“There you go, sir.”

“Benedict,” he clarifies, suddenly needing her to remember his name. (Why?).

“Benedict,” she repeats, amused and gentle, eating each syllable like dusty magic. “I’m Sophie,” she says, smiling timidly at him, hanging him the bag again so he takes it. “Sophie Baek.”

He repeats her name in his mind over and over—letting it imprint on the back of his brain like a birthmark. He says thank you again, dragging the words slow and honest—realizing this is the only small act of kindness he has been offered today, or perhaps in weeks, or forever. The lighthouse (Sophie) only smiles tenderly, nodding, before disappearing again between the dusty corners, returning to work.

When Benedict exits the store, the rain is gentler now, the moon peeking curious from behind the houses. 

As he walks back, a little less lost now, a little less heartbroken, Benedict can only carry the smell of old books from the girl he just met. 

He only met her minutes ago but he knows now that she owns this store, that her hair is long like a warm midnight, that her smile is the moon, and that she enjoys reading shitty poetry. 

Everything that made him a disgraceful man is suddenly forgotten. 

That night, Benedict collapses onto the narrow bed in his small studio. His clothes are still damp, his hands dusty, and even if his heart is less heavy now, the sadness is still drumming on his chest like a wounded bird. He means to rest only for a moment—but at some point through the night a fever comes. (Merciless). When he awakes on the gray morning, his head throbs and his throat aches. He just sleeps, refusing to come back to the living world—ignoring his buzzy phone with calls from Anthony, Eloise and probably his mother. He ignores them all until a knock sounds on the door and slowly, painfully, Benedict drags himself from the bed. And yet, when he opens the door no one is there—only a small package sits on the ground. 

He looks inside. 

Medicines. Soup, still warm. Candies.

His drawings—all of them. Perfectly folded and neat on a new, clean bag. It is now between the dizziness and the surprise that Benedict notices just now that he must have forgotten the suitcase with all his sketches at the store. 

As he rumbles between all the gifts, he finds a small folded note, ink slightly smudged but the handwriting still neat and refined.

So you don’t fill the book with germs.

-Sophie 

Benedict takes a moment to process it—then he can only laugh so loud and so oh colorful until it turns into a cough and he has to drink the soup before it gets cold. 

At home, during the rest of the day, he rereads her pink note more times than he tries Byron’s poetry.

He comes back. (Of course). He waits for the first weekend. (To return the book, of course).

Benedict wanted to return the very next day after meeting her, actually, but he was too sick, and he did not want to be seen as desperate. (More than he feels so). Besides, he does not know her number yet. So he nurses himself back to health, and he puts on a clean sweater and his only pair of glasses, and he cradles his cowardly heart as he walks to the store and ignores his family’s calls again. 

He hadn’t really planned on reading the book—but he did, regardless. (As if he was fulfilling some sort of promise to her). Still, he found Byron had become more tolerable to read. (Just a bit). It just makes him more curious about what else Sophie likes, what moves her, what does she find romantic. 

He feels the curiosity of the artist he thought dead just days ago.

When he enters the bookstore, the sunlight peeks gently through the windows, turning everything gold. It is empy. A certain song of Frank Ocean he cannot catch is ebbing from the back of the store. Sophie moves around like a small bundle of silver—a big pile of books on her arms, bumping them on the counter. Then she turns, she smiles, and walks to him.

“Oh,” she blinks, pleased. “So you did come back.”

Benedict feels all the strings from his heart pulled.

“Of course,” he answers with an easy smile.

As he hands her the book back, Sophie leans slightly on the counter, curious. “So? Did you like it?”

Awkward silence. He's about to say yes, of course, wonderful recommendation. But she looks at him with her beautiful eyes of little stars, and she has been so sincere with him, a stranger, that the least Benedict can do is tell her the truth at least once—after lying to her even about his last name.

“I don’t really like Byron,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sophie blinks at him. “Oh.”

“But it was interesting,” he adds quickly, a little bashful now. “Thank you for the recommendation.”

Her expression softens, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly.

“Anytime.”

And she starts to turn, as if to finish their conversation, but Benedict desperately wants to stay with her a bit longer.

“What else do you like?” he asks quickly.

Sophie turns around as one of her eyebrows arches, teasing.

“I believe I should be asking you that,” she smiles. “If I want to sell you something.”

Benedict chuckles softly, scratching the back of his head, bashful and feeling a wild orchestra inside his heart. 

“I… well. I was actually hoping to return the favor,” he clears his throat, a crooked smile drawing on his flushed face. “As a thank you for your little delivery.” His voice becomes softer now, and his eyes tende (hopeful). “You really saved me that night, Sophie, thank you.”

“Oh,” she breathes, red and pink and suddenly all shy again. 

Her hands slip behind her back, rocking slightly from side to side, timid and adorable. 

“I could already tell you were sick,” Sophie explains. “Your voice sounded awful.” She glances down before adding, “And you were completely drenched. You should keep an umbrella with you, you know.”

Benedict laughs, for the first time in weeks. 

“I will remember that,” he promises with a warm smile. “Thank you.” Then he tilts his head slightly, crossing his arms with a playful grin. “But I would still love to pay you back.”

“You could buy more books from my store,” she shrugs, and he laughs again. 

“Maybe,” he says. “But perhaps I could buy something for you this time.” He hesitates only a second before adding, a little quicker, a little nervous, “So far I’m trusting your recommendations. Maybe you could give me some more… over coffee.”

Sophie’s eyebrows lift in surprise, her head tilting slightly.

“Just me and you,” Benedict clarifies, feeling so awkward around someone for the first time in his whole life. The pause becomes too much, and he adds, teasing: “Perhaps you can persuade me about Byron too.”

Sophie watches him for a moment, arms crossed, as if carefully considering the idea. Then she smiles, pink and timid, but teasing him back. 

“Very well,” she sighs. “And…” Her smile brightens as she looks at him. “Maybe you can show me more of your art.”

Benedict blinks, surprised. So she did see those—he could be feeling embarrassment, and shame, but strangely he doesn’t (no matter how terrible all those drawings were). 

“Great,” he exhales, realizing he had been bracing himself for yet another heartbreak all this time. “I could come pick you up? Here?”

“Yes,” Sophie exhales, very fast, and there is a clear, happy skip in her voice. “Alright.”

At her answer, all the calm in the world has settled inside his body. He exits the store with new books and a merry heart. And Benedict finds that every single thought of his has a trace of Sophie on them, no matter how insignificant.

Because she came to his mind, once, and she never left.

Early in the afternoon, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

unknown number (13:27): can’t make it today, new shipment just arrived (>_<)

Benedict reads the text in a sweet rush, and realizes instantly that it’s Sophie. The second thing he realizes, it’s that even in her reserved behavior, she uses emojis, and it is very cute. Second, is that she must have written to him in a hurry. So before he can even text her back, or feel the heavy disappointment on his chest, it buzzes again.

unknown number (13:28): we can have coffee at the store, if you want?

He exhales in relief, blushing and smiling wide.

unknown number (13:29): (this is Sophie, btw)

Benedict types over and over. He deletes, and writes again. Until all he can do is type a brief, affirmative response that follows with an almost immediate message of a small cat holding a big heart.  

He makes sure to save her number, a small red heart next to her contact name. 

Benedict had many dates in the past. He never had to really put too much of an effort, or a plan, so he doesn’t expect that the one time he really looks forward to a date, everything is a disaster. Like most local stores are closed around the neighborhood, and that the only place he finds has the worst coffee he has ever tasted. But he still buys it, and he hurries to the store, and Sophie is already there waiting for him, saying goodbye to a client.

When he arrives, she has a green box of donuts next to a pile of books. And when she sees him arrive, she smiles—moondust peeking on the shyness of her eyes. (Benedict can feel his heart splashing all around the corners). So they drink the coffee, and it tastes terrible until they both grimace, and then they can only laugh at the situation. Sophie also eats with the most enthusiasm he has ever seen in anyone before, eating three of the four donuts on the box without noticing, and Benedict can only laugh at her adorableness. 

He also learns that she is easily provoked. Through their conversations he can tease, and she teases back—other times her cheeks get flushed, and she argues with him until she rambles and rambles, giving him a long, detailed explanation on why he’s so wrong about whatever sensitive topic he threw at her. (And Benedict can only stare at her, his cheek resting on his palm, listening to her with a half-smile, just enjoying her speeches about whatever makes her so passionate). He also learns that she used to work as a house cleaner, as a nanny, and even as a pastry assistant—which is why baking is her second favorite thing after reading. 

Benedict breathes into every aspect of her—taking in every detail she reveals of herself like a precious piece of a long puzzle. 

Every part of Sophie is made of sunlight.

Even when she asks about him, and Benedict clearly avoids talking about certain aspects, she is a very good listener, attentive and curious. (Like she wishes to know about him as much as he wishes to know about her). He mentions his ex-boyfriend, how he used to go to fencing classes and that he dropped the lawyer career that his father once followed.

That’s the only time he mentions someone from his family, and he does not say his real last name, or mentions that he has siblings. Sophie does not talk about her family, either. Everything they share are the simple things—the ordinary aspects of themselves, likes and dislikes, that no one else in the world would really care about from them.

It is alright. It is enough.

Because Sophie listens to him, attentive and curious, at all the small, ordinary aspects of him that he shares with her. 

And it makes his heart full.

And it is enough to counter all the horror in the world.

Their biggest obviousness, is that they say it a lot: coffee next time, next week, next Saturday. Always at the store, after Sophie closes it. It’s like an anchor to their everyday life, to the point where everything they do, every single awful thing they endure through the days, is to see each other for a cup of bad, cheap coffee. 

They talk about nothing and everything. Ex-boyfriends, ex-girlfriends. Favorite artists and loved authors. Jane Austen, Monet, Joseph Conrad, Van Gogh. They fight over Byron more than once. They take turns to pick the playlist for the day—tonight, Benedict chooses David Bowie, taking her hands and teaching Sophie to dance over Golden Years humming from her small radio. (She's shy, but she smiles, and this is the first time he touches her ever, finding that he wants to do it over and over again). Sophie tells him about Korea, and Benedict confesses about his failure at the Art Academy—without mentioning his brother, or his family name.

As he tells her everything, Benedict thinks that he has never seen someone so angry before—the way Sophie furrows and presses her lips tight, as if she was the one offended in this case.

“These people are all assholes,” she huffs, angrier than him, and Benedict chuckles at the discovery of her sharp tongue.

He is happy. Very happy. This pull—this addiction. He’s joyful in learning more sides about her, and letting her learn more about him. (He feels like drowning in her, without any salvation). He had never let any other person he was interested in to see more of him, always staying on the surface, the superficial—touching them and letting them touch him back, but leaving before they reached further from the bare skin.

But Sophie is different. She gives him the space, lets him talk whatever he wishes. She does not press—but she drinks up his words, curious and attentive. Just the way he is with her. 

The moments when they aren’t sharing painful memories, or taking turns on who picks the playlist next—Benedict finds that his greatest skill is, however, making her laugh. Her eyes were always like two little brown leaves, vibrant and clear, always beneath the water. And yet he makes it his life mission to break through her sadness—to take off her serious, work-mode mask. Watching her giggle briefly until Sophie cannot hold it anymore and she laughs in fishes of colors—loud and without shame. 

She becomes free around him, and slowly, finally, she opens her heart to him like a lotus.

They have less coffee now, but he goes to her bookstore often. (Well, every day, to be exact). He helps with the heavy boxes and the books that need placing on the higher shelves. Sophie thanks him, in her timid and velvet voice, and Benedict finds the strength to do this every hour of every day. Sometimes he finds her with her hair in a bun and her skirt dirty and hands dusty. (She is beautiful, like a fairy). Other times her hair falls into waves like the first time he met her, her lips pink or red. He learns that she favors red and blue colors, and that there must always be a bow on her hair or her clothes.

Benedict also learns that sonnets are her favorite to read, also historical novels and anything from French literature. (Horror is also her guilty pleasure, she confesses one day, even if she later cannot sleep at night). Every time she hands him a book, she explains the whole story behind it with the most utter details, her eyes twinkling like little newborn stars as she explains her passions—and Benedict finds that he can love things by just watching her love them.

Sophie likes watching him in his own passions, too.

Another day, she asks him if it’s alright to see more of his art. Feeling his stomach tremble in anxiety, he says yes. (He will do anything that she asks, to be honest). Benedict brings the same drawing folder he once forgot. Billie Holiday, a choice from Sophie, rumbles softly next to them as he watches a bit restless, a bit happy, how Sophie’s eyes linger over self-poraits, old watercolors, even the very first few rough sketches. 

She looks at his works and he looks only at her. 

The way the corner of her eyes shimmer when she smiles widely. The faint smell of mint and old books from her hair. (How she loves his art, and he learns to love it too, again, only because of her). The sleeves of her red sweater pushed to her elbows, showing bruises and scratches on her wrists and palms—likely from all the hard-work on this old building. 

The way a lock of her black-ash hair slips from her bun to her cheek.

It’s a quiet instinct that pulls him forward, because Benedict can’t help but move his fingers towards her loose hair and lean forward to press a kiss on her cheek. 

The problem is that Sophie turns her head at the exact same moment.

And they almost touch. With a gasp, they both stop for a brief moment—and Benedict could move away, apologize, and avoid her touch entirely. But he doesn’t want to. Sophie does not move, either. He’s looking at her—his lips parted, as if he can’t catch his breath. (Very focused, very at the edge). He is begging her, as if trying to find the silent words in her eyes. 

“I really like your art,” she murmurs, and she moves first, and then it’s all over. 

Benedict meets her halfway as his lips find hers—his fingers in her hair and on the side of her face. It's just a bare caress, but it is sweet and true. They sink into the warmth, breathing in, their mouths returning now without a stop. Short kisses. The wind outside. Their lips find each other over and over until Sophie laughs under his intensity and Benedict ends up kissing her smile. 

Her mouth is softer than all the leaps of the universe.

Their second kiss, less brief and less shy, happens after Sophie closes the store. 

A remix of The Weeknd’s Die For You is echoing from the next room, on the counter. His hands grip the back of her legs and lift her against a corner between the shelves of the Mystery section—her back sliding against the back of the wood like melted ice cream when her knees give in and she has to wrap them around his waist. Then it is all a heavy dizziness. His tongue on her mouth, the wet sound of loud kisses, her nails pressing hard and merciless on the back of his neck. 

In the darkness of the air, her voice keeps repeating his name. (Just the way he likes it). She calls him over and over between the kisses, short and sweet and lips wet. She keeps calling him in the dark when his mouth slides to her cheek, her neck, her exposed stomach. Under her skirt. Gripping her legs to secure her not to fall to the floor when her hands find balance by his hair in—gasping loudly at the tenderly rough sensation of his tongue and scratch of his faint stubble on her cunt. And Sophie lets herself drown between his hands and his mouth as her view grows blurry and glassy, her eyes focused on the big red letters of A Study in Scarlet on the hard cover scattered on the floor when she comes against his mouth with a small scream.

On the spams of her heavy breathing, his name is always pronounced by her, and his name is always loved when she does—Benedict’s hands cupping her cheeks and kissing her there as she catches her breath, whispering her name back. 

It occurs to him, that he loves her. That maybe he always did—from the very moment he entered her store and placed his eyes on her contagious joy. 

He becomes sure of it when Sophie points at him the way the lights dance against the wall, the shapes of the shadows like small fireflies. He cannot see it for too long, because his gaze returns at her only to find her beaming joy there, again. And he is once again left dumbfounded by his ignorance of simple things. (Only she has returned them to him). She looks at the beauty and he looks only at her.

So Benedict thinks that he wants to do things right. Properly. No more ambiguity. No more long, slow makeout sessions that get interrupted by someone coming to the store, or by either of them making a silly excuse. No more doubts, no more half-agonies, half-hopes* colliding inside his heart. So the next day he comes back to help her as he has done for weeks, with good coffee in his hands and a bouquet of fresh lilies (her favorites). She hides her timid face on the bouquet until her voice mumbles an acceptance and Benedict has to hold himself from kissing her silly there.

Everything must be perfect.

Except that everything is terrible. Again.

They’re sitting in his car on the top of a hill as it’s raining heavily outside, the city lights looking blurry and almost magical as they peek through the coated windows. Sophie is sitting next to him, quiet. (He has placed his brown coat over her shoulders, sensing that she must be cold with all her white, mouthwatering skin exposed on her lovely and tempting blue dress). And Benedict wants to tell her that she looks beautiful, always so beautiful, like moonshine, but he doesn’t. He instead rests his forehead on the steering wheel with his eyes closed in a deep frustration, hating how everything went wrong: the movie he invited her to watch somehow got canceled, the restaurant missed the reservations he made, and the car suddenly stopped working just before the heavy storm came over the sky—having to stop on the hill after driving for almost an hour. 

Benedict wonders how every charming aspect he mastered when it came to dating people, always falls apart whenever it comes to Sophie. 

He looks like a man who had never been with anybody before. (Which is, to his case, the complete opposite). And yet he feels so awkward, so out of touch, that he’s almost afraid to glance at her, sitting next to him in the car. But when he steals a glance at Sophie again, she looks lovely as always, her expression calm and soft and rosy. Looking so unbothered, humming along Ella Fitzgerald to Blue Moon on the radio, and eating a bag of chips they managed to buy before the storm broke in. It is as if she’s still enjoying herself, despite it all. 

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” he breathes. And she looks at him in the dark—she shines so breathily. “This was not supposed to be like this.”

Silence. “How was it supposed to be?”

“Just… different,” he exhales, laughing in embarrassment. “Nothing went according to what I planned.”

Sophie laughs with him, but happy, unbothered. 

“Has anything between us ever been like we had planned?”

He snorts, agreeing with her. Then her hand finds his, her fingers traveling on his wrist, under the sleeve—and his breath catches. He looks at her, in the dark, their gazes just as hungry and as true as ever.

Benedict swallows. “I just wanted to wait until I felt you were sure.”

Sophie only hums, barely touching him, barely holding it all together. “I know,” she whispers, her voice a fogged glass. “So come and kiss me, then. I wanted you for so long, since the very first day.”

It's all over. He sucks into a breath—all over her. His kiss is not pretty—it’s urgent now, fierce. His hand tangles deep in her hair while hers braces against his chest as he places her on his lap, both now on the driver seat. Sophie leans closer, her hands everywhere on his hair, making a mess of it, and Benedict has to stop himself from smiling so much against her hunger—how she wants him so much just like he wants to devour her.

She leans closer, so eager that she begins opening, spreading her palms on his chest to open his button-up shirt, but Benedict steadies her—his hands climbing her bare thighs, making her sigh on his mouth, slowing herself a bit as she opens her eyes to find his wide, crooked grin that makes her want to smack at him. He kisses her again, slow, taking his time. (His hard calmness a contrast to her soft, eager hurry). He parts her lips to caress her tongue with his, ripping mewlings from her, so loud and so pleased, his name from her voice echoing with the thunder outside. His mouth leaves hers only to trail along her throat, his tongue brushing her foam skin—tasting the fresh sweetness of her. He leaves open-mouthed kisses on her cheeks, her shoulders that he exposes as he pushes down her dress further and further, and then on a side of her throat where he sucks there, her hips jerking on his lap and between his hands.

Benedict keeps his eyes closed, smiling to himself, proud of finally giving her something.

The sensation runs through her like endless waves, the heat of his tongue sending storms over her fresh skin. (He has barely touched her and Sophie already feels feverish, never wanting to leave this dizziness again). Benedict keeps touching her, his kisses wet and loud and shameless—from her bare shoulders, to her now exposed breasts, giving them attention there for endless minutes. He is slow, taking his time. Sighing now, running out of patience, Sophie grabs his hand and drags it between her parted thighs. He can only groan back in pleasure, finding her so wet, kissing her skin roughly until there’s a path of red and pink and purple.

His hand slips beneath the waistband of her underwear, and the first brush of his fingers against her sensitive skin makes her head tilt back. Her hips lift instinctively, chasing the contact, and he laughs softly into her mouth. His knuckles press against her underwear as two fingers settle where she needs them most. At first his movements are slow and calm, like everything about him has been tonight, but giving her time to adjust because Sophie gasps at the sensation of him there, feeling like she never did before. 

His gaze follows every reaction of hers, his smile evident and moving his fingers faster when she moves quicker against his hand—her movements giving him a clear signal of how she likes it. So he goes deeper, and deeper, and hard, until Sophie kisses his grin—sharp and hungry and thankful. 

Benedict praises her name against the night, moving at the rhythm of the storm, until her hands suddenly are on his belt, pulling him out and her hands are all over him. He curses under his breath when her hand finds his cock and she moves without mercy—until he buries his face against her damp and marked neck. A broken gasp escapes them both, their mouths open and breathing against each other. She clings to his wrist, her hand wrapped around him moving faster, merciless, pulling to the edge like nobody else did before.

She reaches there, and he is satisfied. But it's not enough, it will never be enough.

So Sophie grips him from the laps of his shirt, and Benedict cups her face on his wide palms, and their kisses return being hard and messy and loud.

Before they can fully notice, both of them stumble towards the back seat with their clothes half removed, his coat slipping from her shoulders as he looks for the opening on her back. Everything about this is messy but perfect: kissing and touching each other on the back of a small car under the heavy rain, the sound of the drops rumbling on the roof and the glass interrupted only by the far-away echo of thunder.

On this stormy autumn night, beneath him, Sophie is moaning, drowning, gripping onto him—and his anxiety erases away as he watches her: he's doing everything right, he's doing everything right and she's loving it as he fucks her against the backseat. She scrapes her fingers through his hair, groaning with the strength of his thrusts—her body erupting with the pleasure of his hands and teeth and cock. 

And as Benedict marks secret words onto her neck, she convulses between the current of his hands.

This feels like a first time for them both. Breaking into the light of the night, calling their names between praying and begging. 

When they both reach release together, their gasps filling between the gasps of the night, the pleasure claws to his bones until they become liquid smooth—her body relaxing against his as he pulls her closer into a hug and lays on the backseat, her arms around his shoulders as she tries to catch her breath and feeling his member still hard against her inner leg. His hands move up and down her bare and sweaty back, kissing her cheeks and the tip of her nose.  

“You were great, baby,” he says breathlessly, words tumbling out, like he can’t believe his reality. “So good. I like you so much. My perfect girl.”

“I like you too,” Sophie whispers into his mouth, kissing him slowly and laying on top of his body, pressed completely against him in the small place they have. “I like you oh so much, Ben.”

He almost feels that he has found God. So he kisses her hard, and she responds just the same—returning to their little dance into the night.

The autumn drizzle is still falling when he drives them back to her place.

It keeps raining as they stumble through the stairs to her small apartment, kissing and nibbling and tugging clothes. It rains when they lay on her bed—and when Sophie climbs into his lap and straddles his hips, pushing him back against the mattress with her palms pressed to his chest. Her hands wrapping around his cock and returning the pleasure to him just the same—unraveling him completely, merciless, until she guides him inside her and it all falls into the same place. It rains when he kisses her fiercely, saying the words, all the honest words. (His daydreams about her, all his shameful hopes). And it rains when she answers just the same, and when their hearts become one. The drizzle falls and falls until all words are said and they fill the gasps with playful bites, open-mouthed kisses, laughing quietly and softly.

The rain stops at midnight when it all has grown quiet. Sophie lies tangled against him, wearing only his gray button-up shirt, loose and open across her chest. Benedict’s arm traps her around her hips, his legs completely intertwined with hers so she cannot slip away even in sleep. One of his hands rests lightly on her stomach, the other spread over her heart, rising and falling with her feather breathing—she holds both of his arms as she sleeps, curled against him.

On her cheap apartament, on her cheap bed, they both sleep wrapped around like two blooming trees in an open field—their branches tangling together. 

Dawn.

Like a cat, Sophie stretches languidly among the sheets, full of softness and full of indolent things. And yet fear suddenly washes over her bones—not because of the empty spot beside her bed but for the smell of burnt coming from her kitchen. So she wraps his shirt around her and crosses the hall, only to find Benedict cursing under his breath and making a mess of the counter.

“I’m sorry,” he winces when she walks in, closing his eyes like a little kid being caught. “The truth is, I never cooked for anyone before.”

Sophie giggles. “It’s alright,” she reassures him, so happy that she doesn’t mind the mess that usually would throw her whole day out. “This is the first time anyone made me food, since like, ever.”

He smiles back, and they kiss, sweet and brief.

On her plastic breakfast table, she eats everything. The burnt toast and the tea with too much sugar. Benedict grimaces as he tries his own food and Sophie can only laugh at him, and at herself, for eating his badly made breakfast with so much enthusiasm and so much happiness. 

Long silence. Pleasant silence.

“Sophie,” he murmurs, his eyes fixated on the empty cup of yellow hearts. “I have something to tell you,” he hesitates, “about my family.”

She hesitates too, then she says, “Me too.”

They introduce to each other again—Benedict Bridgerton and Sophie Gun.

Reasons for why they used their mothers’s last names are different yet similar. Benedict is very loved, Sophie not so much. Both rich families, very rich—Sophie knew who he was since the beginning, so he melts into his chair, feeling like a fool. She laughs, squeezes his hand tenderly. (It is alright, really, she understands him). She too wants to be treated like her own person, sometimes, and he feels understood yet again.

From the beginning, she knew who he was but treated him like anyone else—not a second son, or a rejected artist.  

And even if her father’s family is more powerful than Benedict’s, it was easier for her to go unnoticed. So, no, she does not blame him, or minds that he did not recognize her as the daughter of Richard Gun at all. 

“Why?” He asks, her hand in his.

She is a shameful secret—always was. Unwanted, and unneeded.

Benedict shows her exactly how wrong she is. Kissing her deeply, slowly, on the kitchen counter and back on the bed. He proves her wrong with his mouth and his hands, with his deeds and words. 

He repeats I love you until she echoes those same words to him in the dark. Until he marks himself on her, until she becomes canvas under his hands and he paints all the colors on hers—golden and silver and rainbow. 

The day Sophie meets his family is also the first time Benedict sees them in six months.

She puts on a lovely silver dress, the only fancy one she owns. On the way over to his mother’s place, he’s very nervous, breathing sharply—until Sophie interlaces their fingers together and squeezes there, his hurricane heart feeling now oh so very light. He has to remind himself to remain polite and composed (and grateful). But when the door opens, him and Sophie are suddenly surrounded by his sisters and his brothers—waves of hugs and questions drowning them. And before Benedict can really interfere he spots Violet looking at all them from afar, warm and content and her eyes misty.

Everyone instantly loves Sophie—and suddenly she isn’t only his anymore, for a moment.

In Anthony's studio, everything that has to be said between them grows heavier, then quiet. (His brother’s voice cracks like bones, suddenly, like old furniture). When they hug, their two bodies become balls of gold thread, tangled like in childhood. 

“I really like her, so you know,” Anthony mentions when they let go, placing his hand on his shoulder. “Your Sophie.”

Benedict grins. “Of course. You should.”

His brother laughs. When they return to the room (eyes dry and expressions steady, if only pretending) his eyes travel around the room, only to find Sophie sitting next to Francesca, showing her something on the keys, and her eyes glance back at him as if she can feel him from every corner, at every room. 

They both smile, and they are both safe, at home.

(Smiles of joy—a squeeze of joy).

He sees the world clear again through her eyes.

Eventually, Sophie hangs all his works on the walls of the bookstore. The failed ones. Portraits, sketches, watercolors. Some gifted to her, others that he had hidden out of shame since years ago. The last one is Benedict’s gift for her—an oil painting of the bookstore in the morning time. She hangs it on the entrance and turns to look outside, watching the sun reflecting golden on the scattered fallen leaves. 

When they lay on the small couch of his studio, he watches Sophie sleep languid and happy on his arms, and all Benedict can feel is the echo of the words he once found on an old, forgotten book—Anne Carson’s translation of Euripides, right at the back of the shop’s desk.

Where have I seen you before?

In a dream.

A thousand years ago. 

They have the same hunger for art within them. It is in Benedict’s hands, it is in Sophie’s soul.

It is the opening of his first gallery at the main museum. Minutes before they become engaged, she walks through the portraits a few steps ahead of him. She looks at his art and Benedict looks only at her—playing with the ring in his pocket, smiling widely and certain of everything. 

They watch in bliss how their old, lonely life fades away—breathing all the colors next to each other.