Chapter Text
Sophie was no stranger to fragile things.
The flower farm had been in their family for generations, and she had grown up half-wild among it—darting between neat rows of dahlias and daffodils, her laughter carried on the same breeze that coaxed petals open at dawn. It was a beautiful place, but every bloom was precious, so she had to make sure she was careful: not a single stem could break, not a single bulb could be put to waste. So she played her games lightly, tiptoeing through the rose beds as though the earth itself might bruise beneath her feet.
Whatever was not fit to be sold, her mother taught her to braid into flower crowns or garlands.
“Nothing is ever truly wasted,” she would say, pressing fallen blossoms into Sophie’s small, uncertain hands.
Together, they would sit beneath the shade of the old pear tree, weaving crowns from what others might have discarded—wilting carnations, crooked stems, petals just beginning to curl at the edges. It was difficult work for her clumsy hands; a fumble here, a bit too much pressure on the stem there, and the whole thing would come apart in her lap with a quiet sort of devastation.
She learned that she had to hold the flowers just so, or she could ruin them completely.
She used to think there was something wrong with the way she held things.
Her mother—Mrs. Crabtree, though Sophie had never once called her that—would only hum softly, taking the broken stems from her hands without complaint.
“It isn’t in your fingers yet,” she would say, not unkindly, guiding Sophie’s grip back into place. “You mustn’t force them.”
Sophie tried again.
“You have to be gentle with them, Sophie,” her mother told her, adjusting the angle of her wrist. “They break easily, you know. Not all things are built the same.”
Sophie nodded, even when the words settled strangely in her chest. Because sometimes, when she looked at herself next to her mother, she wondered if that was what she meant.
There had been a time, once, when she crushed a stem clean through between her fingers without meaning to.
One of the workers laughed. “Not a Crabtree, that one,” he’d said, shaking his head. “They’ve gentler hands.”
Her mother had gone very still between them and said nothing then—only reached for Sophie’s hands, brushing away the broken pieces with quiet care.
Later, as they sat together with a fresh bundle of flowers, she took Sophie’s hands in hers, turning them over carefully. Sophie watched the contrast without meaning to—her own smaller, darker hands held in her mother’s pale, weathered ones, the difference as plain as it had always been.
Then her mother guided her fingers back into place.
“You mustn’t be harsh,” she murmured, her touch patient. “Feel how they bend. There is always a way to hold them so they do not break. You must be careful.”
She knew that much.
One afternoon, Alfie came running to her with a glass jar clutched triumphantly in both hands.
Alfie was one of the kids whose family worked the far end of the farm, near the greenhouses where the air was thick and sweet and always a little too warm. He was older by a year and infinitely more certain of everything, which made him, in Sophie’s eyes, an authority on nearly all matters of importance.
“I caught something,” he said, breathless and beaming with a gap-toothed grin.
They crouched together behind the geranium beds, hidden from the watchful eyes of adults who would surely disapprove. Inside the jar, something fluttered, bright and startling against the dull smudges of dirt on the glass.
It was a butterfly.
Larger than any Sophie had seen before, its wings were a vivid red-orange that seemed almost aflame in the sunlight. When it stilled, it looked like a piece of the morning sky had been trapped and folded in on itself.
Sophie leaned closer, her breath fogging the glass slightly. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, as though speaking too loudly might shatter it.
They watched it for a long moment, transfixed, their dirt-encrusted fingers tapping lightly at the sides of the jar in shared curiosity. The butterfly fluttered again, frantic now, its wings beating against its invisible prison.
“Can we touch it?” she remembered whispering, as most children do when they propose something secret, something that may or may not get them into trouble.
Her friend shook his head vehemently.
“No. My dad says you mustn’t.” He lowered his voice to match hers, though his carried an edge of warning. “Not while they’re alive, anyway. If you touch their wings, they’ll tear. And if they tear, they can’t fly.”
Sophie frowned slightly. “And if they can’t fly…?”
“They die,” he said simply, as though it were the most obvious truth in the world. “They need to fly to live.”
Sophie nodded solemnly, contenting herself with just watching it.
When it was time for lunch, Alfie took off the netting he’d tied to the top of the jar and shook the butterfly out. It hovered for a moment between them, circling their heads once, twice, before finally lifting higher, disappearing into the wide stretch of sky above the fields.
Sophie ran after it, following the flicker of gold-orange wings until she couldn’t see it anymore.
She slowed, then stopped.
And wondered, just for a moment, what it must be like to live your entire life never being touched—
as if even the gentlest hands might ruin you.
The flat next to hers had been empty for a long time. Hers was the last door at the end of the hallway, so the walk to her place was often a study in peace and quiet. The landlord—who engaged in more gossip than actual day-to-day maintenance—had once let slip that the place had been fully paid for, for an entire year, by some rich doctor for his brother, who hadn’t so much as shown his face for a single day of the lease.
She liked it better that way, if she were being perfectly honest. Silence suited her, and if it meant one less neighbor at whom to offer a polite, hollow smile in the morning, all the better.
That was probably why it was so easy to tell that someone was moving in.
Even before she left her flat to open up the flower shop that morning, there came the sound of thumping and creaking—the telltale noises of furniture being dragged across the floor and boxes being dropped a little too carelessly against the walls.
Her cat, Marie, meowed in complaint at being woken so early, only to vault onto her safe place on top of the fridge in a flurry of fur when a particularly loud bump rattled across the hall.
She looked up sympathetically. “I’m sure he’ll quiet down once he’s settled in,” she reasoned, talking more to herself than she was to her cat, who looked back at her skeptically.
She shrugged back at her and let herself out of her flat. Sure enough, out in the hallway, several boxes were stacked up in front of the unit next to hers. The door stood wide open, revealing movement inside, and two figures—one man, one woman—spoke in low, deliberate tones, their attention clearly focused on someone else within.
“Excuse me,” Sophie said softly as she passed, weaving around the boxes and the slight clutter that spilled into the hall, and as she walked she caught snippets of the conversation:
“- wanted us to keep an eye on you…”
“Are you sure you’ll be fine on your own?”
“I’ll be okay, you both worry far too much.”
That last voice made her turn her head.
She caught sight of who she assumed was her new neighbor: tall, broad-shouldered, chestnut hair falling just so, and a pair of pale green eyes that met hers for the briefest moment, before she quickly tore her gaze away, cheeks warming at the sudden intensity of it.
She shook her head, trying to clear it, and hurried towards the stairwell. But the image of those pale green eyes and the intensity of the his gaze clung to her thoughts and refused to fade as she sped down the steps.
So the ghost neighbour had finally appeared.
Her new neighbor did not, in fact, 'quiet down.'
He’d been next door for less than twenty-four hours, and already, Sophie knew he was not the kind of man who understood the meaning, or purpose, of blissful silence. The walls in their building were not particularly thin, yet somehow she could hear every little thing he did, and it was driving her slowly insane.
From the sound of it, he was thoroughly dissatisfied with where the movers had placed his couch, because she could swear he had been shoving it back and forth for nearly an hour before the noises finally ceased. Even his pacing—up and down, up and down—was relentless, each step so purposeful and loud that if she didn’t know better, she would have sworn a giant had moved in.
That, however, was only the beginning of her problems.
It seemed that not only was he incapable of toning anything in his life down, he also appeared to be some sort of brooding, starving artist. She discovered this at around eleven o’clock that evening, just as she was about to surrender to sleep, when the first notes of a piano began to drift through the wall.
Marie, perched on the edge of Sophie’s bed, cast her a look that clearly said, “What was it you were saying about him quieting down?” Sophie rolled her eyes and tugged the duvet over her head, hoping that the small barrier of fabric might muffle the sound—or, at the very least, convince Mr. Nepo-Brother to quit his mysterious, late-night piano-playing and finally just go to bed already.
Luck, however, was not on her side.
Two hours later, he was still playing. The music was hauntingly beautiful, yet it grated on her nerves. Well past one in the morning, Sophie began to suspect she might not survive living next door to what could only be described as the second coming of Chopin if he continued this tortured, nocturnal artist routine until his lease ended.
Kicking the sheets off in a mix of desperation and outrage, she stormed into the hall. Sleep-deprived and thoroughly exasperated, with far less tact and far less politeness than she normally conducted herself with, Sophie raised her hand and knocked—practically banged—on his door.
The music stopped. Once again, she could hear the man’s heavy footfalls as he moved to answer the door. Sophie folded her arms tightly across her chest, setting her jaw and forcing her shoulders back into a posture of authority. She put on her best scowl, bracing herself to scold him for being so inconsiderate, and she readied to push through the confrontation even though every fiber of her being wished she could turn around and retreat to the safety of her bedroom.
The door opened, and her first thought was that he was even taller up close. His chestnut hair was messy, as though he had run his hands through it a dozen times—or perhaps not at all—and it fell across his forehead in an unfortunately endearing, bird-nest sort of way. Behind him, the room was dim, lit only by a desk lamp and the faint glow of a laptop, barely visible over his shoulder. His pale green eyes rested on her with a cool, assessing stare. For a moment, she forgot why she had come, until the intensity of his gaze reminded her, and her irritation flared all over again.
“Hey. It’s nice to meet you. I live just next door, and I know that you're new here and have just moved in, so you might not be aware, but the sound carries really easily. I’d appreciate it if you could keep it down,” she said, matter-of-fact, somehow managing to pour politeness into her words.
He seemed amused more than anything, not the slightest bit abashed or apologetic. He propped an arm against the doorframe as he leaned in, and reflexively, she leaned back, as though to keep a safe distance.
His fingers were long, she noticed, and for a maddening moment, she found herself imagining them drifting over the keys of his piano, and then she began to imagine them flitting feather-light over her…The thought made her chest tighten, and she slammed it down immediately, cheeks warming at her own mind betraying her, forcing her attention back to the matter at hand.
She tried to ignore on his messy hair, the faint shadows under his eyes, the smug tilt of his mouth but her pulse betrayed her anyway. It was infuriating; she had come here to scold a neighbor, not to be distracted by his absurdly, undeniably hot hands.
“Sorry about that,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, lips quirking into a sly, lopsided smile that made it abundantly clear he wasn’t the slightest bit sorry. “Inspiration tends to strike around this time.”
“Yeah, well, please could you ask your inspiration to be more considerate and strike at a time when people aren’t sleeping. Or, to be precise, trying to sleep.”
He chuckled and, for some reason, it made her irritation spike even higher. She was probably radiating it, because he lifted his hands in mock surrender, leaning just enough closer to make it playful.
“All right, all right. I’ll keep it down for you, Miss Baek,” he said smoothly, and maybe it was just her tired mind playing tricks on her, but she thought she could detect the faintest edge of flirtation in his tone.
She rounded on him, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t remember introducing myself to you.”
“You didn’t,” he said, grin widening triumphantly, “but the landlord came by this morning to tell me all about my very grumpy neighbor. It was definitely a pleasure to meet you. Now, you should go and get some sleep.”
She felt a strange twinge of defeat as he shut the door, followed by a delayed pang of embarrassment when she caught sight of her awful bedhead and skimpy pajamas in the mirror. Perhaps it was the price she had to pay if he was going to let her sleep in peace.
The next day, she asked the landlord about him. Not because she was interested or cared, though. It was just to level the playing field.
One thing she had learned about Benedict Bridgerton—besides the fact he had a very unfairly attractive name as a very unfairly attractive man—was that he seemed to have a revolving door of visitors. The brunettes from moving day came again and again, sometimes together, sometimes just the guy, who looked to be around their age, but carried himself with the air of someone much older.
He moved with a quiet authority, furrowed brows and serious expression permanently etched across his face, and would ignore her completely if they happened to meet in the hallway. Not that her actual neighbor ever did that; he seized every possible opportunity to grin at her, to tease her about the smallest things—how, wow, she had actually brushed her hair this morning, or how daring of her to step outside in heels that might get caught in the stairwell.
Every week or so, a girl would appear—not even the same one each time—and they would hang around for an hour or so, and then vanish. If they were hook-ups, they must have been rather unimpressive ones, because those visits coincided with his quietest moments. The easy, teasing energy he carried at all other times disappeared, and was replaced by a silent weight that made Sophie wonder what it was about these fleeting visits that could draw such a shadow across him.
Sophoe kept a planter box of bellflowers by her window and was crouched over it, watering them carefully before she went to bed, when he clambered out onto the fire escape after one such visit. She yelped in surprise, nearly tipping the watering can over the edge of her fourth-floor flat. Luckily, both their reflexes were quick enough, and he managed to catch the spout with one hand just as she gripped the handle.
“Thanks,” she muttered, taking the watering can from him. She kept her gaze firmly on the delicate flowers, though out of the corner of her eye, she could see him perched sideways on the fire escape, legs long and dangling over the edge. He leaned back casually, one elbow resting on the railing, the faintest trace of that infuriatingly easy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked completely at ease.
“You should get down from there,” she told him, her eyes flicking to where he hung over the edge precariously. “I don’t have a lot of faith in that thing.”
His lips twitched upward in a smile. “Good to know you don’t want me to die.”
She rolled her eyes. “Jury’s still out on that one.”
For a moment, he looked almost stunned by her reply, and then he gave a big, hearty laugh so different from the restrained chuckle of their first encounter that Sophie found herself caught off guard. She caught herself staring, noticing how it lit up his face, softened the sharp lines of his features, and made him seem younger, more carefree in a way that made her chest ache despite herself.
He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket. “Smoke?” he offered.
She wrinkled her nose, grateful for an excuse to look away. “No thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging and lighting the cigarette. He took a long drag, exhaling slowly into the night air. He perched there, close to her, at a companionable distance, and began to make small talk about the neighbors, the shops nearby, each question and answer growing steadily less tentative and uncertain than the last.
Inexplicably, Sophie found herself lingering at the window long after she had finished watering the bellflowers. She wasn’t quite sure why—maybe because, beneath that cool, self-assured exterior, there was something quiet peeking through that resonated with her. And she wasn’t sure she liked the way it made her feel.
Someone was knocking incessantly on her neighbor’s door just as she arrived home. The girl was petite, though still taller than Sophie, with dark hair that fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and a sort of effortless prettiness that made her difficult to ignore. Sophie remembered seeing her before—she was one of Bridgerton’s regular visitors. She gave the woman a nod and a small, tight-lipped smile before sticking her own key into the lock.
Before she could let herself in, though, the woman spoke up.
“Hey,” she said, stepping forward without hesitation, her voice clear and steady. “I’m not trying to bother you, but…” She gestured to the door. “Do you know where he could’ve gone? I told him I’d come by around this time, but no one’s answering. I’m a bit worried, and I’d like to find him.”
Sophie blinked, a little surprised. “Um… no, sorry, we hardly know each other. Maybe he just isn’t home?” she offered, trying to be helpful.
The woman’s lips pressed together for a fraction of a second, clearly unconvinced. “I guess that’s a possibility,” she said grudgingly. Her brown eyes seemed to linger on the shut doorway for a moment, as though weighing her options. “It’s okay, I’ll stick around for a bit and see if he comes back. Thanks for your help.”
“Okay,” Sophie replied, offering a small smile and beginning to step inside.
“Oh, and…” The girl hesitated just for a fraction of a second, then looked Sophie squarely in the eye. “If you see him later—or tomorrow, or whenever—could you tell him I stopped by? And that he has to call me?”
Sophie looked at her, confused. This woman seemed far too confident, and remarkably pushy for this just to be another casual visit. An ex trying to get back together, perhaps? Sophie couldn’t believe it, but the encounter was making her more, not less, curious about him.
“Uh, alright. Who should I say was looking for him?” she asked.
“Eloise,” the woman replied easily, flashing a quick, confident smile. “Thanks. I really appreciate your help.”
Sophie nodded, murmured a polite acknowledgment, and finally entered her flat. She tossed her keys onto the kitchen counter and crouched to scratch her mewling cat on the head.
“Hungry?” she asked. Marie meowed in protest at being ignored, and Sophie laughed softly at her persistence. “All right, all right, I’ll refill your bowl. Give me a minute.”
She walked over to the far end of the kitchen, refilling her cat’s bowl with kibble on one side and water on the other. From where she stood, she caught sight of a familiar figure perched on the fire escape. He seemed to notice her too, because he reached out and rapped his knuckles lightly against the glass.
Sophie frowned but stepped toward the window anyway. She lifted it and leaned out slightly. “You have a visitor, you know,” she said.
“I know,” he replied smoothly, one eyebrow arched, “Why do you think I’m out here?”
Hell if I know, Sophie thought, watching how precariously perched he was over the ledge.
“You’re not going to let her in? She looked pretty upset,” she asked, tilting her head upward.
“If I let her in, I’ll be the upset one,” he said, shrugging as though the answer was obvious.
“Is that any way to talk about your girlfriend?”
“You think she’s my…?” He threw his head back in a laugh. “Miss Baek, if you wanted to know whether I’m seeing anyone, all you had to do was ask.”
Sophie rolled her eyes, irritation flaring, and moved to close the window. He lunged a hand toward it with a mock desperation. “Hey, hey, hey! I was joking. Please—don’t leave. I don’t want you to,” he said, voice playful, but there was a flash of genuine concern in his eyes that Sophie didn’t miss.
She looked up at him with exasperation. “What is it you want, Bridgerton?”
“Could you… uh, let me in? At least until she leaves. I’m fairly certain she’s about to batter down the door. I promise I’ll be quiet—you won’t even know I’m here.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Quiet? Is that even a thing you know how to do?”
“I promise I’ll be as quiet as I know how,” he conceded.
Sophie studied him for a long moment, noting the genuine plea in his pale green eyes—a sincerity she hadn’t expected from someone trying to dodge a persistent, disgruntled ex.
Finally, she let out a sigh and pushed her window open wider. “All right,” she said. “But I’m only bailing you out once. If she comes by again, don’t expect me to get you out of it.”
“You are a lifesaver,” he said, that infuriating, charming smile back in place.
“How are you even going to—hey!” she nearly yelled, halfway through the thought, as he casually swung one leg over the fire escape. His hands gripped the railing, and then, before she could react, the other leg followed. There was now nothing between him and a four-story drop to the pavement below.
Reflexively, she reached out, offering her arms. His surprise lasted only a heartbeat before he grabbed hold of her with one hand and the windowsill with the other, slipping inside her flat.
Her heart hammered in her chest.
Once it finally calmed, she gave him a sharp swat on the arm. “God, don’t do that again! You scared me half to death,” she scolded, her brow furrowed in anger.
His grin only widened. “See? I knew you didn’t want me to die.”
Despite herself, Sophie found that Benedict Bridgerton was… tolerable, even pleasant company. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, bickering over what to watch until a true crime documentary finally won out after a surprisingly heated debate.
Then came the debate over dinner, resolved only after a short, tense game of rock-paper-scissors that landed them with a Chinese takeaway. By the time they were halfway through the third episode, any thought of his promise to leave once his visitor had gone had completely vanished—they were both far too invested in the show.
Sophie watched him struggle with the chopsticks, attempting to snag a spring roll from the takeaway box. Without a word, she slid off the couch, padded to the kitchen, and returned with a fork. Handing it to him, she tried not to smile at the faint flush that colored his cheeks. “Here,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“Thanks,” he murmured, voice low and embarrassed, taking the fork in one hand, and running his fingers through his hair with the other.
Sophie’s mind nudged at her with an inconvenient thought, one she quickly and firmly shoved aside: he was not, under any circumstances, allowed to be cute.
“So,” she started, clearing her throat, as if that might also clear away any sudden, entirely unwelcome thoughts about Benedict Bridgerton’s attractiveness, “your piano-playing… is it for work, a hobby, or did an ex convince you that broody late-night music-making is the best way to lure people into your dungeon?”
His lips curved into a dimpled half-smile. “Methinks the lady doth project too much.”
She raised an eyebrow at him, wholly unimpressed, and the lopsided smile only widened, like he was enjoying himself far more than he had any right to.
“All right, all right. A bit of everything,” he admitted, reaching for another dumpling with his fork, far more confident with it now. “I do write music for work—mostly freelance these days, because…” He trailed off, pausing just long enough to suggest there was more to that story, piquing Sophie’s interest, before continuing. “Anyway, a friend of mine is making an indie film and asked me to score it. So if I keep you up again one of these nights, you can blame him.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” she said coolly. “I doubt your friend specifically requested that you score his most dramatic scenes at one in the morning.” She tilted her head slightly, watching him. “Anyway, go on.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh at that, conceding the point, and did as she asked. “Fair enough. But yeah, playing helps me settle. Clears my head.” He shrugged lightly. “So I guess it’s a hobby too.”
Then his eyes flickered with mischief again, something sharp settling into his expression as he met her gaze once morer. “And I’m not going to lie—it’s lured a couple of people into my sex dungeon. The girls, and guys, love it.”
Sophie didn’t doubt it for a second. Even if she was loath to admit it, her neighbor was frighteningly, maddeningly attractive, even sprawled at the other end of her couch in a ratty band t-shirt and a pair of faded joggers. There was just something about that scruffy, slightly disheveled effortlessness which was so appealing.
The thin, slightly crooked pair of glasses that were now perched on his nose did him no favors either, framing those green-grey eyes in a way that only made them more distracting. It was no wonder he always seemed to have women appearing at his door, orbiting him as though pulled in by something they couldn’t quite resist.
If she was being honest, she could almost understand why.
If she was being really honest, she also couldn’t help but be pulled—
“What about you?” he asked, and she nearly choked on her iced tea, the thought disappearing instantly in a rush of embarrassment at the possibility that she might have said any of it out loud.
When she looked up, though, he was watching her, quietly attentive, his head tilted slightly as if he genuinely wanted to know.
“What do you do?” he asked.
Oh, so that’s what he meant.
She set her iced tea back down on the coffee table, fingers lingering on the glass for a moment as she steadied herself, firmly pushing aside any thoughts that made her heart race.
“My family owns a flower shop just down the street,” she said. Despite herself, her expression softened, something warmer slipping through. It was her safe place, after all.
“A flower shop, huh?” he said, glancing at her with mild curiosity. “Doesn’t really suit you.”
Her eyes snapped back to his. “Why not?”
He tilted his head, studying her with an ease that felt far too familiar for someone she’d only just met. “Well, you’re a bit… closed off,” he said, choosing the words carefully.. “Like you don’t really let anyone get close. And our first meeting, you practically tried to knock my door down.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “So forgive me if I’m having trouble picturing you arranging bouquets.”
There was no bite in it, no real derision—it was simply an observation. Somehow, that made it worse.
Sophie scowled, something in her chest tightening at how easily he’d seen through her. It stung more than she cared to admit, the comment lodged uncomfortable beneath her ribs. Still, she lifted her chin, unwilling to let him have the last word.
“Ever thought that maybe that’s just how I am around you?”
His smirk came easily, like he’d been waiting for that. The slight lift at the corner of his mouth revealed a faint crookedness in his teeth, and absurdly, irritatingly, it only made him more attractive.“Nice to know I get special treatment, then.”
Oh. She really, truly wanted to punch that look right off his face.
The week leading up to Valentine’s Day was the busiest time of year in her line of work. She was up to her neck in pre-orders, her hands constantly occupied, her mind running through lists of arrangements, deliveries, and names she could not afford to forget. By midday, her hands were aching, her apron was dusted with pollen, and her mind was running a constant tally of orders she could not afford to get wrong.
When Alfie came by early that morning with a fresh delivery from the farm—crates of roses, orchids, and cranations still cool with the morning air—he lingered longer than usual, hovering by the counter as she sorted through the bundles. He offered, a little too quickly, to stay and help.
She waved him off with a small smile. With a face like his, she told him, he’d only draw in more customers than she could handle, and she was already drowning as it was.
That wasn’t entirely untrue.
But the truth, the real truth, was simpler and far less charming: she preferred being alone.
It was easier that way. Safer.
Everyone had to be kept at a careful distance—far enough that she could not hurt them, and they could not hurt her. The world had never been particularly gentle, and she had learned, early on, that it was better not to give it the chance.
The fact that she had to admit, even reluctantly, that her neighbor had seen through that irritated her more than she cared to dwell on.
She was halfway through assembling a Valentine’s Day arrangement for a teenage girl, built precariously around an inconveniently oversized teddy bear wedged right into the center, when the bell above the door chimed softly.
Her brown eyes flicked up automatically, the familiar “Good mor—” already forming on her lips before it faltered, dying mid-breath as recognition set in.
“What are you doing here?”
Standing in the doorway of her shop was her neighbor, looking more put together than she had ever seen him. His hair was styled neatly away from his face—still wavy, but tamed into something deliberate. He was clean-shaven, too, though Sophie found it strange to see him without the faint stubble which lined his jaw. And instead of the worn hoodies and loose, comfortable clothes she had come to associate with him, he was dressed in a suit—tailored, clearly expensive, and entirely at odds with the disheveled, late-night pianist she knew.
He clicked his tongue lightly at her less-than-warm greeting, stepping further inside as though he belonged there. His gaze drifted briefly over the shop before settling back on her.
“Is that any way to talk to a customer?” he asked, a trace of amusement curling through his voice, his mouth tilting into that familiar, infuriating half-smile.
“You’re a customer?” she asked pointedly.
“I’m serious. I’m here to buy some flowers, if you have anything ready,” he replied, though there was still a thread of amusement lingering in his voice, as if he couldn’t quite help himself.
Still, she chose to give him the benefit of the doubt. “For whom?” she asked, already turning slightly toward her worktable.
He raised an eyebrow at her, the corner of his mouth curling up. “If you’re trying to figure out whether I am in a relationship again, I—”
She cut him off with a sharp look. “No. I actually need to know the recipient or the occasion so I can recommend something appropriate.”
“Right,” he said, the teasing edge fading just a fraction. His lips pressed into a thinner line, something more thoughtful settling over his expression. “It’s for my father.”
“…Oh.”
Sophie felt something twist uncomfortably in her chest, her earlier irritation turning into something like embarassment. “Okay,” she said, softer now. “Do you know what flowers he likes? Or colors? I can put something together for you. Do you want something for your mother as well?”
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting—not quite meeting hers—as though the answer took more effort than it should have. Then he nodded, faintly, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips. “Sure. Let’s make that two.”
Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Two… okay. And what flowers would you like?”
“Hyacinths,” he said firmly, meeting her gaze this time. “For both of them.”
She blinked, a little surprised at the simplicity, but she hid it behind a professional smile. “Hyacinths it is, then.”
There was something in the way he said it that made her pause so she didn’t press any further.
Instead, she turned and led him toward the back of the shop, where a few premade arrangements were displayed on a wooden shelf. The air there was cooler, faintly perfumed with the soft sweetness of spring flowers.
For his father, she selected a bouquet of blue and lilac hyacinths, their petals clustered tightly together, wrapped in soft cream paper and tied with a simple ribbon. For his mother, she chose a similar arrangement, the flowers a delicate mix of pink and yellow, wrapped and tied with equal care.
“It’s perfect,” he said, his voice softer now. The warmth in his green eyes, the fondness curling at the corners of his mouth, made her chest tighten. “She'll love them.”
Oh. So he could look like that too, huh
Sophie quickly averted her gaze, unwilling to linger on the unexpected softness that didn’t match the charming, teasing man she’d come to know. Her pulse thudded uncomfortably in her chest, a feeling that was equal parts irritating and disconcerting.
She handed him the bouquets, and for just a heartbeat their hands brushed. The brief contact sent a small jolt up her arm, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting. She stepped back toward the counter, needing the distance—a couple more feet to feel a semblance of control. Yes, a couple more feet of distance would do her good, a buffer between her composure and whatever this sudden flutter in her chest was.
“Do you want to add a note with them? Or have them delivered?” she asked, keeping her voice steady despite the warmth that lingered.
“No thanks,” he answered quietly, following behind her. He stayed a few steps back, as if he could sense her need for the counter to act as a small barrier between them. His voice was distant, almost detached, as he added, “I can drop my mum’s off at her place. My father… he… died, about twelve years ago. When I was sixteen. He wouldn’t have been able to read a note even if I wrote one.”
Sophie turned to him, the weight of all the ways she might have misstepped pressing heavily on her shoulders. Her brown eyes softened slightly, catching the dim, golden light filtering through the shop’s front window. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and let her fingers brush absentmindedly against the smooth edge of the counter. “I’m so sorry,” she said, almost in a whisper, the words trembling in her throat despite her effort to steady them.
He shook his head, a faint shrug of the shoulders which made the lapel of his suit jacket shift slightly, revealing more of the crisp white shirt beneath. “It's fine, you didn’t know. It’s been a long time. Nothing to be sorry for.” He said this with a hint of that familiar aloofness in his tone, the same protective detachment that she knew so well, because she’d worn it far too many times herself. Don’t pity me, it seemed to say. I’m not as lonely as I look.
But if her own experience had taught her anything, it was that Benedict Bridgerton was, in fact, every bit as alone as he seemed, and somehow, seeing it, knowing it, made her chest tighten in ways she hadn’t expected.