Ah Yes! The Defining Unit On Deciding The Mental Issues Of A Person "vibes"

Gregory House with a teenage daughter (platonic!!)

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General Hcs :) (more like rambles)

🩻House & teenage daughter that looks juuust a bit too much like him? Buddy don't get me started-

🩻I feel like he'd really get along with a teen daughter (he's just a teenage girl too, I fear)

🩻Like he's one of those cool dads that you can share anything with without getting scolded/grounded or anything like that. Don't get me wrong, you're getting raised with manners, but you're also getting raised to be a menace when it comes to standing your ground.

🩻I mean c'mon, it's Greg House we're talking about, he's pretty goddamn stubborn.

🩻You guys also have a bunch of inside jokes. One of which being referring to eachother with the most exaggerated, old-fashioned, formal forms ever known to the English language, when in reality you're just telling him to buy toilet paper on the way home because there's none left

"Father, I regret to inform you that I require hydration, however am far too away from the only water source in our fortress and am far too lazy to raise myself upon my feet."

"My dearest, dearest daughter.

No fucking way, get your lazy ass up and pour a glass yourself." "But dad-"

🩻Btw swearing is 100% something natural for your household. House would probably squeeze in a remark or two if you overdo it, but overall he has no problem with hearing swears from you (because he also swears every now and then)

🩻(Off topic, but you'd regularly make puns about the apartment being a 'House-hold' and he'd pretend to hate every single one of them, but deep down he'd actually find them amusing)

🩻Apartment is a mess. All the time. Almost everywhere.

🩻But I don't mean filthy mess. I mean just untidy, but you guys know what's where and find a way around it

🩻Unspoken rule that you tell eachother whenever you move something, just in case the one that did the moving forgets

🩻You probably know how to cook better than he does, for some magical reason

🩻You convinced him to try cooking dinner once. Almost burned the kitchen down. But you did have a laugh about it later, so it's all good

🩻Most times you guys order takeaway, but if you step up and decide to whip something up yourself? He wouldn't tell you face-to-face, but you can see the flicker of pride in his eyes and the hint of an almost fond grin on his face

🩻He might not be able to cook dinner, but he can definitely make breakfast. Expect scrambled eggs and sausage/whatever ham he could find in the fridge greeting you when you wake up. He might even make pancakes on weekends/rare dayoffs

🩻Aaah he loves that you share a music taste with him if you do!!

🩻If you don't, he won't stop you from listening to it ofc, he'd just complain about it whenever it wasn't on headphones (🙄)

🩻But if you did share a music taste? ... Getting noise complaints from the neighbours about classic rock getting blasted past 10 pm wouldn't be the most uncommon

🩻Would support you in any hobbies you have, 100%. Both financially and by psyching you up.

🩻You draw? He has a sketch/artwork of yours framed somewhere in his office. Crochet? He still keeps the mini crochet doll of himself on his keys. Knit? He wears the scarf you made him every winter. Read? He's buying you at least one new book every month or two. You'd have to help with installing new bookshelves though, he'd do nothing but lay on the couch for the most part and blame it on the leg™. Play any instrument? You have the whole ass setup for it in your room at home. If the instrument is suitable for piano duets, he's so down to do one with you

🩻Would so be down to playing any type of video game with you. You guys probably have a gamecube/nintendo 360/xbox/whatever the hell there was in his time I have no idea

🩻Lets you mess around on his Gameboy if you ever come to work with him and get bored

🩻Greg might be kind of an asshole to people and he might claim not to care, but he definitely cares, especially about you.

🩻If you're happy, he genuinely feels at ease too. But if he senses any shift in your normal behaviour, anything that he might find alarming? He wouldn't push it more than an "Anything wrong? Or are you this frowny all the time?" or a "Wanna talk about it?". But he'd do his best to subtly show you he's here for you and you can talk to him. About anything that might be troubling you, anything

🩻House isn't used to saying 'I love you', but he does his best to show it to you.

🩻Until one day you come home crying and he realises - he has no idea what to do. So he does what feels most unnatural to him, but knows that you need. He offers a hug. If you accept it, he gladly wraps his arms around you and tucks your head under his chin. Rubs your shoulders and back a little. Offers to hear you out if you need to talk. Then proceeds to trashtalk whoever/whatever made you cry with you. He's a number 1 gossip buddy, makes you feel so much better by doing it too. He'd then order your fav food and offer to do whatever you wanted, really. Ends the night by sending you off to bed with an awkward shoulder rub, but a look of soft longing in his glossy eyes (he wants to kiss your forehead and tuck you in like he did back when you had nightmares, but he's scared of being vulnerable with you cuz you're older now)

🩻Overall, House is pretty emotionally constipated at times and doesn't like being vulnerable or showing affection. But he'd be a cool, loving father and I die on this hill.

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I love post canon fics where Snape survives, and then he finally meets up with Harry again and it’s like

Harry: I finally respect you as a person, and I am grateful for everything you have done. We could not have won without you and your sacrifices, so thank you.

Snape: …

Snape: Ew

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#PERFECTLY MATCHED FREAK

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the kiddos!

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Dean's baby (Dean x reader)

Summary: After a long day of research, you go bother Dean in the garage.

words: 2.7k

Warnings: none

The bunker’s garage. Dean is under the hood of the Impala, a socket wrench in one hand, grease smudged on his forearm. His muscles flex subtly beneath his t-shirt with every movement, the faint sheen of sweat catching the dim light filtering through the room. The scent of motor oil hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of tools and old leather. The rhythmic clinking of metal echoes softly, grounding the space in familiar sounds of work and grit.

You wander in, your footsteps light but still noticeable against the concrete, the echo bouncing lazily through the garage. Boredom clings to you after hours spent in the bunker.

 The day had started off normal: wake up, polish some ancient weapons down in the bunker, make breakfast, and check the news for any strange sightings. One report caught your attention, a possible wendigo sighting. You never liked those. They always made your skin crawl.

That’s where you’ve been for most of the afternoon: doing research with Sam. Well, mostly he’s been doing the actual research while your mind drifts elsewhere.

Honestly, you’re a little annoyed with him. The younger Winchester and his big, stupid puppy-dog eyes. And that hair, god, that hair. Always falling into his face until he sweeps it back with that effortless little motion, usually when he’s frustrated or deep in thought.

You’d caught yourself staring, a lot.

Anyway.

You spot Dean, engrossed in his work in the garage, and smirk to yourself.

"Hey, grease monkey," you call, leaning against the workbench with a lazy grin.

Dean doesn’t flinch. His arm tenses as he tightens something under the Impala’s hood, the movement drawing attention to the way his shirt strains slightly across his shoulders. There’s a faint sheen of sweat along his forearms, catching the light just enough to highlight the grease smudges marking his skin. The garage hums with the familiar scent of motor oil, metal, and leather, a warm, grounding smell that feels like him.

"If you’re here to help, there’s a rag over there. If you’re here to annoy me, the exit’s where you left it," Dean mutters, not bothering to look up.

You smirk but don’t move. "Why not both?"

Finally, Dean ducks out from under the hood, giving you that half-annoyed, half-amused look he’s perfected over the years. His eyes meet yours, sharp and clear, but your mind has already started drifting, back to where you spent most of the afternoon.

Research with Sam.

You were more focused on how easily he navigated the endless pages of lore and obscure texts, piecing things together faster than you could even process. It’s annoying, how effortlessly smart he is, how his mind seems to work ten steps ahead while you’re still trying to catch up.

You pretend it doesn’t bother you, but sometimes it does. Not because he makes you feel small, Sam would never do that, but because you wish you could keep pace. And honestly, it’s a little embarrassing how often you find yourself nodding along, hoping he doesn’t notice when you’re completely lost.

Dean's voice pulls you out of it. "Aren’t you supposed to be helping Sammy with the case? Or did you solve it already while staring at his hair?"

Your cheeks heat, but you roll your eyes, playing it off "Sam’s doing his super-sleuth thing," you say, waving your hand dismissively. "I was starting to lose brain cells watching him cross-reference, so I figured I’d come see some manual labour”

Dean smirks, turning back to the engine. "Well, you came to the right place. Watch and learn, kid. This baby’s a masterpiece."

"Masterpiece? It’s stuck together with duct tape and prayer."

Dean freezes, socket wrench in hand, and slowly turns his head to glare at you. There’s that dangerous glint in his eyethe one that usually means you’re about to get roped into cleaning weapons or organizing the storage room. But beneath the mock offense, there’s humor simmering just under the surface.

"Careful," he says, voice low with faux seriousness. "You’re walking a fine line."

You hold his gaze, arms crossed, trying not to let the corner of your mouth twitch. Dean’s like that, a mix of sharp edges and warmth that sneaks up on you. He acts tough, all bravado and snark, but you’ve seen him stay up all night patching Sam up after a hunt, or quietly fixing the broken lock on your door without ever mentioning it.

"Relax," you tease, nudging the Impala’s fender with the toe of your boot. "I know she’s your baby. I wouldn’t actually insult her… to your face."

Dean’s glare narrows further, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him. "Good. Because this ‘baby’ has more heart than most people I know. You’d be lucky to be half as reliable."

You snort, shaking your head. "She’s lucky to still be running at all."

Without missing a beat, Dean grabs the dirty rag from the workbench and flicks it at you, the grease-streaked fabric catching you square in the shoulder.   

"Hey!" you yelp, recoiling with a laugh as you swat it away. "Gross!"

Dean grins, clearly pleased with himself. "That’s what you get for disrespecting the queen." He tosses the rag back onto the bench like nothing happened, already turning his attention back to the Impala.

"You’re impossible," you mutter, brushing off the faint smear left behind.

"And you’re still standing in my garage," Dean counters, leaning back under the hood. "Which means you’re fair game."

"Yeah, yeah." You roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the grin tugging at your lips.

Moments like this, easy, light, and a little messy, are the rare ones you tuck away for later, because you know they don’t come around often.

It’s strange, really. How easily this life found you. Or maybe how easily they found you.

Meeting the Winchesters hadn’t exactly been planned. You stumbled into their world under circumstances that could generously be called chaotic, one wrong place, wrong time situation after another until suddenly, there you were. Tied up in the mess of hunts, ancient books, and things that shouldn’t exist outside of nightmares.

But somehow, instead of leaving you to deal with it on your own, they’d taken you in.

Dean likes to act like you’re a pain in his ass, but he’s the one who never lets you drive anywhere alone. The one who shoves a gun into your hand and taught you how to shoot, even if he complained about it the entire time. And sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking, his eyes soften, if only a little.

And Sam, Sam’s different. Gentler in his approach, but no less protective. He’s the one who stays up late researching the things you don’t understand, explaining it all in that calm, patient way that somehow makes you feel a little less out of your depth, even when you know you’ll never catch up to him.

They don’t call it family. Not out loud. But it’s in the way Dean knocks your boot off the workbench with a muttered "Get your feet off Baby," or the way Sam always checks to make sure you ate something after long nights.

It’s quiet, unspoken, but you feel it all the same.

You let out a breath, still leaning against the workbench, watching Dean work. "So, what’s wrong with her this time?"

Dean shrugs, wiping his hands on another rag, his muscles moving slightly with the movement. "Nothing serious. Just a tune-up. Gotta keep her running smooth." He glances over at you with that smug, gruff look, eyes gleaming. "Something you wouldn’t understand, what with you not knowing the difference between a carburetor and a spark plug."

You gasp, hand to your chest in exaggerated offense. "I know what a spark plug is! It’s the… sparky thing."

Dean freezes for half a second, staring at you like you’ve personally insulted his entire existence. And then he barks out a laugh, loud and unapologetic, shaking his head. "Sparky thing. Yeah, okay. You’re a regular gearhead."

You roll your eyes, stepping around to the other side of the Impala and leaning against the fender with a lazy stretch. "I’m just saying, for someone who spends hours messing with this thing, you could at least upgrade to something newer. You know, with Bluetooth. Or seat warmers."

Dean’s hand stops mid-wipe, and he lowers the rag slowly, fixing you with the kind of glare that suggests you’ve crossed into dangerous territory. "Seat warmers? Really?" His voice drips with disbelief, as if you’ve just suggested painting flames down the sides of the car.

"First of all, seat warmers are for wimps. Second, this car’s got more soul in her headlights than any of those plastic toys rolling off assembly lines. She’s not just a car. She’s family."

"Right…." you say, holding back a laugh. "The Impala is the real Winchester sibling."

"Damn straight," Dean replies, his tone serious.

He goes back to tightening a bolt, his forearms shifting with the motion, tense and controlled. There’s a natural ease to the way he moves, like he’s done this a thousand times, every motion instinctive. His t-shirt pulls just slightly across his back as he leans over the engine, the faint sheen of sweat from hours in the garage catching the low light.

You try not to notice, but it’s hard to ignore the quiet strength in the way he works, strong hands, calloused and capable, making even the smallest task look deliberate.

For a moment, the only sounds are the soft scrape of metal and the rhythmic click of his wrench, and you find yourself lingering longer than you meant to.

You tilt your head "You really love this car, huh?"

Dean glances at you, his expression softening slightly. "Yeah, I do. She’s been through a lot with us. Hell, she’s saved our asses more times than I can count."

He pauses, rolling the wrench absently in his hand, eyes flicking over the engine but not really seeing it. His voice drops, quieter now, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. "When everything else goes to crap, at least I know she’s still here. Still running."

For a moment, the weight of his words lingers, heavier than the air thick with motor oil. You catch the flicker in his eyes, the kind that doesn’t need explanation. It’s not just the car. It’s everything she’s carried him through.

The unexpected honesty catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t have a snarky comeback. You watch the way he absently runs a hand along the edge of the hood, fingers tracing the curve like it’s second nature. You can’t help but wonder how many nights he’s sat in the driver’s seat alone, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

"That’s... kinda nice," you say quietly, the words feeling too small for the moment but all you can come up with.

Dean straightens, shrugging it off almost immediately, like he didn’t just crack the door open to something more vulnerable. His eyes flick back to you, the faintest smirk returning to his face. "Yeah, well, don’t get too sentimental on me. Next thing I know, you’ll be asking to drive her."

Your eyes light up, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "Oh, can I?"

The shift is subtle, classic Dean, slipping behind the wall the second things start feeling too real. But there’s still something lingering in the way he watches you

"Not a chance in hell."

"Come on, Dean!" you whine, stepping closer. "Just once! I won’t even go out of first gear."

"Nope," Dean says, popping the P with exaggerated finality. "This car’s got standards."

You pout, leaning against the Impala dramatically. "You’re no fun."

Dean raises an eyebrow, and walk’s round the car towards you: leaning in a little closer, his teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’m plenty of fun. You just don’t meet the qualifications for the VIP package."

His voice drops slightly at the end, smooth and full of that effortless confidence he carries around like armor. It’s the kind of line he throws out without a second thought, but it lingers longer than you expect, heating the space between you just enough to make your pulse pick up. You tell yourself it’s just the closeness, the warmth of the garage air, and not the way his eyes flick over you like he’s enjoying your reaction.

"Wow," you say, tilting your head with a mock-offended scoff. "Now you’re just being mean."

Dean chuckles under his breath, shifting back a fraction but still well within arm’s reach. There’s something easy about the way he leans, like he knows exactly how to walk the line between playful and challenging.

"Mean?" he echoes, standing upright and planting his hands on his hips, the muscles in his arms flexing just enough to be noticeable beneath the grease-smudged fabric of his shirt. His gaze locks onto yours with that familiar intensity, the one that’s half teasing and half something else you can never quite place. "You just called my car a sparky, duct-taped death trap. You’re lucky I let you breathe near her."

You know he’s joking, mostly. But there’s something about the way he says it, the protective edge creeping into his voice like he’s daring you to insult the Impala again. You’ve seen him put himself between her and danger more times than you can count.

You laugh, holding your hands up. "Okay, fine. I’ll leave your precious car alone." You step back, your grin still in place. "But if you get stuck in a ditch again, don’t call me to push."

Dean snorts, shaking his head. "Like you could push anything heavier than a shopping cart."

His voice carries that familiar roughness, laced with amusement, the kind that makes it impossible to take him seriously, even when he’s laying the sarcasm on thick. You roll your eyes, pushing off the Impala with an exaggerated sigh.

"I’ll remember that next time you need me to help save your sorry butt," you shoot back, already heading toward the door.

It’s the kind of banter that feels second nature by now, the words rolling off your tongue as easily as breathing. But just as your hand brushes against the doorframe, something tugs at you to glance back.

Dean’s still there, leaning against the Impala with his arms crossed, watching you leave with a half-smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes follow you, not in a way that demands attention, but in that quiet, lingering way of someone who’s gotten used to having you around. Like maybe he notices more than he lets on.

Your grin softens almost involuntarily, the sharp edges of the teasing fading into something quieter. "Besides, you’d miss me too much”

Dean raises an eyebrow, but there’s no denying the way his eyes warm just a little. He doesn’t say anything, just gives a short, gruff nod like that’s answer enough.

And it is.

"Thanks, Dean”

Dean rolls his eyes, picking up his wrench again. "Yeah, yeah. Get outta here”

You giggle lightly as you disappear down the hallway, your footsteps soft against the cold bunker floor, Dean’s eyes trail after you. He shakes his head with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Seat warmers," he mutters under his breath, glancing at the Impala like she might somehow agree with him.

The sound of Sam’s voice drifts faintly from the library, calling your name, probably to drag you back into research or help with whatever case he’s buried in.

Dean’s smile fades just slightly, not gone, but dimmed, like someone turned the dial down a notch.

His hand lingers on the Impala for another beat longer than necessary before he shifts his weight, rolling his shoulders as if to shake something off.

He ducks back under the hood, wrench in hand, and mutters under his breath, "All right, Winchester. Get a grip."

But even as he works, his thoughts are still trailing after you, following the soft echo of your laugh down the hall.

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Please be nice it was my first one, any feedback would be appreciated ;)

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i love the discourse about whether or not dean and sam are antiheroes. babygirl two of their close friends and surrogate family members are the Demon King of Hell who canonically alluded to murdering infants once, and his abusive witch mother who still violently murders her own enemies after several mini-redemption arcs. half of the series’ conflicts are their fault because they were either too stupid to realize what they were doing, too selfish to stop doing it because it had some personal benefit that outweighed the damage it would cause, or they just didn’t think another option was out there.

and yea, even though most of their Big Bad arcs were a product of the… [title card]…supernatural; possession, curses, soullessness, eldritch influences, whatever else…it’s not like they were completely good people without those factors. dean was a deeply sadistic torturer in hell for no other reason than being in pain and wanting to inflict that pain onto others. Cas created first-generational trauma with the family of his vessel, was briefly both a cannibal and a megalomaniacal zealot who tried to take over heaven and earth. sam believes all incarcerated people are evil and deserve to be in the system (lol) murdered his grandfather and allowed a child to be tortured (by Cas).

not even going into the numerous apocalypses they were all responsible in, or the amount of innocent people they all collectively murdered in cold blood because they stopped giving a shit about saving vessels after like season 2. if even that. even jack has a fair amount of murder and torture and wrongfully harming innocents under his belt and he hasn’t hit chronological double digits yet. bonus mention for the fact that across multiple perspectives, these guys are either regarded as psychopathic serial killers, psychopathic hunters, or Those Guys Who Constantly Fuck Up Peoples Lives And Endanger Everyone Around Them.

like, an antihero by the dictionary definition is “a main character in a narrative (in literature, film, TV, etc.) who may lack some conventional heroic qualities and attributes, such as idealism, and morality,” — and, (cont’d) — “Although antiheroes may sometimes perform actions that most of the audience considers morally correct, their reasons for doing so may not align with the audience's morality.”

that’s literally a grocery list for them to scratch off girl. come on now.

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Spn Opinions That’ll Have Me Burned at the Stake Pt. 2: Electric Boogaloo

I’m back and bitchier than ever. For reference, here’s part 1.

• Season 5 wasn’t that great.

• D*stiel isn’t real, it’s a sucky ship, and that confession scene was just the writers pandering to the rabid deancas fans cause they knew they were the only ones still watching the show lol. And they left it ambiguous enough that they could still say it was meant platonically if they needed to.

• I hate how they watered down both angels and demons post-season 5ish.

• I liked Ruby 1.0 better than Ruby 2.0.

• I hate Honey!Cas. They just did that cause they didn’t know where to take his story from there, needed him out of the way, and thought it would be funny. It was insulting.

• Jack should’ve been played by an actual child so everyone’s abuse of him would resonate with the audience for what it was (casual fans are brain dead and need to be spoon fed).

• Victor Henrikson deserved more time on the show.

• I said it in the last post, but Alex is way more interesting than Claire and should’ve been given the lead role in the wayward sisters storyline instead.

• Dean is canonically straight and for Christ sake if you guys wanted bi rep, there’s about a thousand other characters that are strongly coded or implied to be bisexual (including Sam!) but y’all didn’t focus on them because it wasn’t actually about representation, it was about making it more plausible for your dumb fetishised gay ship to actually happen (spoiler: it didn’t).

• Season 3 and Season 6 were some of the best ones, you guys just don’t have any taste.

• Claire is not Castiel’s daughter and saying she is erases Jimmy and insults her, and even Cas himself acknowledged that on the show.

• Castiel is canonically NOT gay and Misha constantly saying he is is annoying and airheaded. He’s been attracted to women IN THE SHOW and he’s not even really male, so calling him a Gay Man is reductive and just plain wrong. Also, it’s veeery sus that- given how bi/pan folks are even more underrepresented than gay people- that one of the rare times where the bi/pan label actually fits a character BETTER in CANON……. the allies and monosexuals adamantly reject it. Hm.

• “Curing” vampires or werewolves or demons shouldn’t have been a thing.

• The Winchesters cause most of the bad shit that happens and then they just force supernatural beings to fix it for them- tell me again how they’re Super Special Heroes.

• It shouldn’t be possible to make angels human by removing their grace, because (unlike demons, werewolves, etc) they were never human to start with. If you drained me of all my blood, I wouldn’t magically transform into another species, I’d fucking die.

• Making Billie go crazy was dumb.

• Rowena was one of the most interesting and charismatic characters on the whole show- they just didn’t know what to do with her character.

• The archangels, Lilith, and Azazel should’ve been the biggest threats on the show. No other knights of hell, no god and his sister, no Cain, nothing like that. Having every villain just get progressively more overpowered made the show unbelievable and repetitive and annoying.

• The kernel sanders king of hell guy was hot.

• Dean is misogynistic as HELL, homophobic, likes racist porn, is a narcissist, pervs on teen girls, & thinks all non-human people should be exterminated… and that is all CANON.

• Most of John Winchester’s abuse is fanon.

• Fans portraying Cas as a smol bby who colours in colouring books and has a bee plushie is so fucking annoying.

• Instead of having so many gigantic cosmic storylines with god and his sister and alternate dimensions and even the angel and demon tablets, they should’ve just scrapped those and made the stein family and the bmol and the alpha vampire storylines way bigger than they were. Less cosmic stuff, more earth-based stuff.

• They ruined Lucifer’s character post-season 5. Before that, he was more sympathetic and reasonable than Michael. After, he was a spoiled child hurting people for fun.

• Everything from season 7 on is garbage. All of it. There’s bits of goodness here and there but overall seasons 7-15 are trash.

• How the fuck are there actual people who are deangirls and hate Sam?? The space where your brain should be is empty, I swear to god.

• If there was gonna be any lgbt rep in the Wayward Sisters group, it should’ve been Jody and Donna instead of Claire and Kaia. Those two were boring as hell and had zero chemistry or build-up, but Jody/Donna had plenty of chemistry and was very believable.

• Meg has the best and most realistic redemption arc of anyone on the show.

• Chuck was not likeable or charismatic enough to carry off as big of a villain arc as they gave him. Also that whole thing was stupid and WAY too Out There.

• All the angels should’ve been aroace. All the demons should’ve been pan.

• I stanned Cole so hard up until he changed his mind about hating Dean. That was disappointing.

• Sam went through the same shitty childhood Dean did (plus Bonus Abuse on top of it) and he didn’t turn out Like That.

• I cannot think of a single person that was asking for a spin-off about the Winchester family, like that has to be the most boring thing.

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Mr. Bridgerton and the Baker

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Covered in flour. It is how she usually spent her days, working hard at her family's bakery. She just hadn't expected to have met him in such a state.

Word Count: 11.8k

Warnings: pining, angst, fluff, a small assault (reader gets hit, not by Benedict!), mention of pregnancy (like, literally a line or two),

A/N: Did I write an entire fic barely based on that one scene in Camp Rock where Mitchie is covered in flour? Yes. Do I regret it? No.

With the melting of snow and the promise of new starts, the social season was nearly upon the ton, nearly upon all the potential suitors and debutantes—all waiting with bated breath to secure a match this year. Of course, those in waiting were of high status, usually tied to the aristocracy or drowning in wealth beyond compare.

The others? The ones not blessed with endless funds or pure luck of royal lineage had the privilege, nay, honor to serve those who would be so fortunate. For the many, it included servicing the estates—butlers, lady’s maids, governesses, home chefs and the like. For the patrons on Tilbury Street, it included the less sought after roles, polishers, cobblers, modistes and bakeries. One bakery in particular was the prime choice for the aristocracy, a diamond in the rough as some may say. 

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“I just simply don’t understand why we cannot have our chefs prepare the pastries for the ball,” Eloise Bridgerton nearly groaned, her arm hooked onto her mother’s. They had been walking up and down Tilbury Street for the better part of twenty minutes, simply enjoying the fresh spring weather. “I’ve never known them to make horrid dishes.”

“It’s the first Bridgerton Ball of the season, Eloise,” the dowager viscountess murmured politely. “Along with it being the first Kate has had the pleasure of hosting, putting an order in here is a fresh foot forward, one that’ll impress our guests.”

Eloise barked back a laugh. “If it is so important, why is Kate not here to make the order herself?”

“That, dear sister, is an excellent point.” Following close behind the two Bridgerton ladies was a rather tall shadow, equally as dashing and nearly as clever—Benedict—the second eldest son of the Bridgerton brood. “Surely Anthony could spare his wife for one afternoon, I can’t imagine it being so difficult to pry them from their bedroom—”

“Benedict Bridgerton!” Violet snapped, turning hot on her heels to face her son. He could only laugh.

“Oh Mother, you must relax,” he said lovingly, patting both hands on her shoulders. “You know better than I that it could have been a far fouler thought—why, I can easily imagine three other ways I could have expressed my way of thinking.”

“Ah, ever the poet, Benedict,” Eloise smiled wryly, pushing her way to the front of their clump. No one had the heart to mention the glaring fact that it was likely she didn’t know the way in which they were headed. 

“This bakery,” Violet continued half-heartedly. “Is a prestigious supplier for the ton—you may recall their exquisite cake that we had ordered for Daphne’s wedding.”

Benedict hummed contently. “It was a good cake,” he practically nodded off at the thought. The decadent sponge nearly brought him to tears—of course, it could have very well been the relief from undue stress of Daphne’s season altogether, having nearly lost his older brother to an unnecessary duel.

“I think it was far too sweet,” Eloise said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “I had to drink nearly three cups of tea to clear out the sugar on my tongue.”

“Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of sweetness?” Benedict nearly sang.

“Perfectly fulfilling,” his younger sister quipped back.

The dowager viscountess could only sigh, her eyes reaching up to the clouds above. While she loved nothing more than being the mother of all eight of her perfect children, their endless bickering and bantering grew vexing. It merely took the Bridgerton siblings another minute of arguing before stopping in front of a quaint storefront—the sickeningly sweet aroma filling the street. “We’re here.”

“I could have told you as much,” Benedict mumbled, rubbing his temple lightly. “The scent is… overpowering.” If he were lucky, the headache that was quickly forming would dull fast.

“But Benedict,” Eloise turned hot on her heels. “What’s life without a bit of sweetness?”

Violet Bridgerton was quick to catch her second eldest's hand before it met the back of Eloise’s head. “If it’s too much for you, dear,” she released her grip. “Please feel free to wait for us out here. It should only take a moment.”

“Like a ‘moment’ at the modiste?” Benedict crossed his arms, his brow nearly touching his hairline. “If I recall, the last time I accompanied you to the dressmaker, I spent over an hour basking in the summer sun.”

“Nothing logical stopped you from coming in,” Eloise drawled. “Of course, if you wanted to managed to stay pleasant with the seamstress, one should have kept it in his trousers—”   

“We’ll only be a moment,” Violet hushed Eloise quickly, grasping the top of her arm firmly. “There seems to be little wait. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

He huffed towards the sun—while there had been little heat near the start of the English spring, the sun was warm against his skin. Benedict enjoyed being outdoors more often than not, it was usually the reason he accompanied his mother on their errands nearly every other day of the season. That, of course, and the fact it got his worrying mama off of his back to be wed. With Anthony finally securing a match, it was only fitting for Violet Bridgerton to be working her way down her list of endless children—having only two of eight married off. “It should only be a moment,” Benedict reassured himself, watching various other families and couples walk by. 

That is, until he heard a rather loud bang coming from the alley beside him. He should have known better—he was taught better—than to investigate outlandish sounds, especially in town, but Benedict Bridgerton was nothing if not curious. He peeked around the corner, holding his breath, preparing to be met with a wild animal of some kind. His view was shaky at best, hardly could see a thing around the bricks. If he wanted a better look, he’d have to take a few steps towards the unusual noise. 

A large white cloud had enveloped the small alley, it was difficult to even see a few meters ahead, let alone what could have caused the loud commotion. Benedict waved his hand through the mysterious fog, trying to clear some air. “Hello?” He heard a soft squeak. An animal, it had to have been, Benedict was sure of it now. “Is anyone there?” 

A cough rang through the alley, startling him more than rogue vermin could have. The cloud had begun to dissipate, the white settling on the stone street below. Flour, if he had to guess, given the location.

“I’m alright,” a voice murmured quietly, another soft cough following quickly after. The shape of a person came into view, the air finally clearing enough for him to make sense of the scene he came upon. It was one of a woman now covered head to toe in the white powder—she had no distinguishable features, the flour was caking every bit of her body and dress. Just striking eyes that made Benedict’s heart jump to his throat. “Just… made a mess.”

“So it seems,” Benedict hummed, stepping over a pile of powder to get closer. “Do you require any help?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to get dirty. I fear I’ve got quite enough of that for the both of us.”

“I don’t mind getting dirty,” Benedict said quickly, his tongue moving faster than his brain. “But… yes, I suppose it’d be for the best if I refrained from getting any flour on me. May I ask how…?”

“Clumsy,” she uttered simply, the shrug of her shoulders speaking nothing but truth. “I must have the slipperiest fingers in town—I wish I could say this was the first time…”

“Manage to cover yourself in flour often?” Benedict’s lips pulled into a jesting smirk.

“Nearly every other day,” the woman sighed. “We’ve grown accustomed to purchasing an extra sack or two just for situations like these."

“I hardly doubt you could be that clumsy,” Benedict laughed, leaning against the stone wall. “But, I am painting quite the image in my head.”

“Oh I do hope I’m decent in that image, Mr. Bridgerton,” she giggled, curtsying in a near-mocking manner.

“How do you know—”

“Everyone knows your family, Mr. Bridgerton, I’d be a fool to admit I don’t know who you are—though you and your brothers all blur together, so I am merely taking a shot in the dark in which of the four you are.”

“Oh?”

She nodded once, a flurry of powder falling from her hair. A muffled shout from the back door startled her, grabbing her attention. “Ah,” the woman waved the air in front of her face, “I suppose I should take my leave—get cleaned up.”

“Of course,” Benedict said simply. “I won’t keep you.” In nearly an instant, the mysterious dusted lady disappeared from view, diving into the back door. He was taken aback by her candidness—having addressed him so forwardly without the pleasantries of a name exchange. “Damn,” he mumbled to himself, kicking residual flour off of his polished shoe, “I never asked for her name.” Would it be too forward to knock on the back door to ask for her? Benedict Bridgerton couldn’t wrap his head around the interaction—she nearly sent him into a tizzy.

“Brother?” 

Eloise stood at the end of the alley, clutch in hand, face pinched in confusion. 

“Ah, I suppose you’re finished?”

“Hardly,” Eloise scoffed, “Mother insisted on doubling the initial order ‘just to be safe’. She’ll be out in a moment.” 

“Perhaps I should go inside to accompany her—”

“And leave your unwed sister unchaperoned in this part of town?” Eloise pressed a hand to her brother’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes danced quickly to the street in the distance, clearly not paying any attention to his sister. “Benedict?”

“Hm?” He glanced down. “Ah, maybe we should both go back inside—”

“You’re…” she pushed on him harder, nearly sending him backwards. “Acting strange. Not terribly long ago you wanted nothing to do with this place and now, you’re dying to jump into the building that brought you so much strife?” Eloise removed her hand from him, settling it down by her side as she glanced at him up and down. The blues of his outfit were covered slightly in a white power—not enough to really notice, but enough to give the appearance of filth. “And you’re covered in… flour?”

“I don’t wish to share every moment of my day with you, dear Sister,” Benedict said simply, sighing contently. “My business is my business.”

“Business,” Eloise parroted. “Sure.”

Violet Bridgerton had finished the order quickly, mumbling something about the higher prices this time of year—she had gotten a good deal regardless. Benedict was hardly listening, for he was already planning his next trip to this very bakery, hoping to meet the girl in flour once more. 

He never did get the chance, to go back to town. His studies took up most of his free time, any other moment he had was spent with his ever-growing family. Just recently, his sister Daphne brought over her newest addition—another daughter named Belinda—who happened to be yet another spitting image of her mother. Benedict had a theory that every new Bridgerton baby will simply just inherit all the Bridgerton features, so far he had been proven correct. 

“Damn,” Benedict mumbled, violently dabbing a paint brush into his water cup, the colors swirling from the end.

He had been in his studio for the last few hours, mixing endless pigments and oils together, trying to concoct the color in his mind’s eye. It was impossible, he theorized, to create the exact shades and hues of her eyes. It was the most striking thing he remembered about her appearance—save for the copious amount of white flour caking her form—and Benedict Bridgerton had come to the conclusion that her eyes were simply forged by God Himself, a color not meant for mortal recreation.

“Why can I not…” He sighed, slumping back in his stool, paintbrush nearly hitting his trousers. “This is impossible.”

The grand clock beside the door chimed out. It was nearly time to get ready for Anthony and Kate’s ball—an occasion he was most dreading, save for enjoying the few pastries that came from the quaint bakery down in town. Reluctantly, he began to pry himself from his studio and made his way to the washroom, preparing to soak away any remnants of her.

—

“Mother,” (Y/N) chimed out, tying the serving apron to her waist, “I don’t see the reason for my attendance this evening. Surely the hosts of the event will have their own serving staff?”

“(Y/N),” her mother exasperated, throwing a towel down. “Your brothers are ill and bedridden and have been the last few days. Your father and I are counting on you to help fulfill the order, my back isn’t what it used to be, if you recall.”  

The girl sighed, her eyes rolling right up to the cracking ceiling. “How funny, it seems your back flares up nearly in time for deliveries to be made,” the girl mumbled.

“What was that?” Her mother turned quickly towards her only daughter. “I’m sure I misheard you.”

“You must have,” (Y/N) sang. “For I said I’m willing to help with the delivery, mother.”

The older woman narrowed her brow. “Never do I hear such sass from the boys… Perhaps a bit of manual labor will refocus your priorities.” 

“I already agreed,” (Y/N) reiterated. “As if I had terribly too much of a choice…”

“No,” her mother clicked, slapping the a rather large ball of dough that resided on the floured surface. “You do not. Now come, help your mother roll this out.”

She had gotten ready for the ball in record time—seeing as how she’s never gotten ready for one. (Y/N) dug through her mother’s wardrobe, finding an old and somewhat outdated green dress to wear, but it did the trick just fine. It was far nicer than the frocks she had owned anyhow, a light embroidery laced the edges and was sure to be run over by her fingertips endlessly throughout the evening.   

“The carriage is here!” Her father couldn’t have shouted louder throughout the small flat. Their home resided above the bakery, a quaint little thing with only two bedrooms—(Y/N) had the pleasure of sleeping in a rather over-glorified closet. If she reached her arms out, she’d be able to touch two of the walls easily, but like everything in her life, she made do. Unexpected child? Unexpected room. 

“I’ll be right there,” (Y/N) said, tying the now-cleaned apron around her waist, checking herself in the reflection of her water pitcher. “Damned hair,” her fingers moved to tuck a loose ringlet back into position—she had spent the better part of the evening trying to style it. 

“We need to load the carriage and make way to Bridgerton House,” her father repeated, smoothing his formalwear out. He hardly had the chance to wear it, seeing as situations like this happen only once in a while. “We must make a good impression, perhaps we’ll find more business this evening.”

“That’ll be a blessing,” her mother agreed, heading down the stairs to the bakery. “We could always use more business and the dowager viscountess is well liked around the ton, surely she’ll have pleasant things to say about our work.”

“I thought we let the pastries ‘speak for themselves’,” (Y/N) chimed in, carefully picking up a parcel. Her parents simply glared at her, allowing their daughter to silently move along with the loading process. 

The silence continued throughout the lengthy ride to Bridgerton House—the bakers not uttering a word until disembarking to unload all of the sweets. True to her original thought, the Bridgertons had their staff do the bulk of the unloading, carrying each parcel and box into the grand room that was to be the heart of the ball, all that was left to move was the elegant cake specially ordered by the dowager viscountess.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Oh, that would be—” (Y/N) turned around to the mysterious voice, only to find the same Bridgerton boy from earlier in the week standing behind her. “I—Mr. Bridgerton, I’m sure I can find my father to assist, you really don’t need to—”

“I insist,” Benedict held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. “I shouldn’t allow a lady to carry such a thing on her own, it would be most improper.”

“I’m certainly no lady,” she scoffed, readjusting her apron. “I’m not a part of your ‘season’ or whatever it is you lot do during the spring and summer months.”

Benedict barked out a laugh. “Debuted into the Marriage Mart or not, you’re still a lady and I am ever the gentleman, so please, indulge me.”

A blinding heat flushed across her cheeks—she was sure it was visible from down the street. (Y/N) stepped to the side to allow Benedict to grab ahold of one side of the tray, her hands curling around the other. “Thank you… for your help.”

“It’s no bother,” Benedict said truthfully. “I’ve been practically bored out of my skull all afternoon, this is truly the highlight of my evening.”

“Helping me carry a cake?” She asked, turning a corner carefully.

“Seeing you again,” he hummed unabashedly, noting the way her grip stiffened. “Though I must say, I think I prefer you without the flour.”

“How do you know that girl was me? I was covered head to toe.”

“Your eyes,” Benedict said simply. “They’re the most expressive and exquisite eyes I’ve had the pleasure of viewing.”

Benedict Bridgerton. The man who made her speechless.

“That, and I made a bold assumption when I saw you and the pastries arrive this evening.” He laughed lightly, afraid to drop the masterpiece. “I assumed correctly, no?”

“You,” (Y/N) tried to allow her cheeks to cool before continuing.“Would be correct. Very wise you are, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Benedict.”

“Benedict,” she repeated softly, twisting herself to set the cake down on the table. “My apologies.”

The ballroom was grand—much nicer than any place she’d dream of residing in—delicate decorations hung from the sconces, flowers covered nearly every inch of the free space. It was, in every meaning, elegant. “This is… where you live?”

“Ah,” Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. “My brother has been kind to allow me to stay here since he married, seeing as I only have my own property in the country. But yes, this is one of the homes I grew up in.”

“One of the homes,” she repeated back to him. “And here I thought I was spoiled with my broom closet.”

He turned a vibrant shade of red. “Oh! I didn't mean to—”

Her laughter filled the ballroom, the lightness practically lifting Benedict upwards. “I was merely teasing. I’m well aware of your status and wealth, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Benedict.”

“Ah! Sorry,” (Y/N) felt the twinge of shame hit her chest, it was small but enough to keep her in line to avoid making the mistake again. “I meant it in jest.”

“Funny girl,” Benedict clicked, waving his finger lightly. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.”

“Growing up with nothing more than sacks of flour and parcels of sugar allows one to get creative with her jokes,” she explained carefully, treading lightly as to not make it sound completely miserable. “Though, I think they were a better audience anyhow…”

“You wound me,” a hand grabbed his heart, knees buckling towards the ground. “Oh how the lady wounds me.”

“I believe I told you, Benedict, I certainly am no lady.”

“Well, the lady has neglected to give me her name,” he peeked up from the floor—having found quite a cozy position. “So how else should I address such a fair maiden?”

“Fair maiden,” she scoffed playfully, voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly am nothing close to a maiden… but, if you must know,” she paused, “my name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“(Y/N)…” Benedict repeated it, mostly to himself. He rose from the floor, eyes not leaving her own. “What a beautiful name.”

“I—thank you. I suppose you should give my parents such a compliment, though. I am simply the recipient of such a gift.”

“Well, when I ask your parents for permission to court their daughter, I’ll pass the message along.”

She froze. 

“Ah, what was that?”

“I hate to be so bold,” Benedict sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. “But I feel the need to let you know of my intentions—my interest in you.”

“Oh you must be mistaken,” (Y/N) shook her head. “You’d want nothing to do with a girl like me. Surely there are other women in the ton who strike your fancy?”

“Nope,” he said simply. “Not a one. You, on the other hand, with your striking eyes and seemingly endless beauty, piqued my interest. If I may be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about our encounter in the alley—it’s been on the forefront of my mind for days.”

She blinked, the gears in her head trying to keep up with the words Benedict was speaking. “But I am not from your world, Benedict. Even if I was interested in pursuing a courtship—”

“Are you not?” His eyes struck wide open. “I’m quite the catch, you see. Well-bred, scholarly and, if I might say so myself, I’m quite the talented artist. Easy on the eyes, too.”

“Benedict.” He stopped and looked at the woman. She was practically glowing in the candlelight. “While I’m not saying I’m… not interested, I can’t help but feel like you are infatuated with the idea of me and not… me.”

“How do you mean?”

She laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know me, truly. My likes, dislikes, how I take my tea, what weather I fancy—”

“See,” Benedict grabbed her hand, “I wish to know those things. Is that not the purpose of a courtship?”

“I am not from your world, Benedict. I have priorities, a duty to my family and our business—I can’t spend a moment thinking of the frivolity of a courtship with a man of your status.”

“But if I were, say, the butcher’s son it would be different?”

“Yes,” she removed her hand from his. “Of course it would be. I’m surprised you haven’t thought this through.”

“I have been thinking it through since we’ve met,” Benedict nearly spat, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. “I am not the type of man who wishes to court just anyone, you know.”

“So you wish to court me just because you can? Because how ever could I say no?”

“I—of course not!”

“We’re perfect strangers who shared a moment—albeit an endearing one—out in the middle of an alley. We both cleaned up and went about our lives,” she shook her head. “Nothing cosmic or magical about it.”

“I did not expect you to be so against the idea, unless… there’s another man of your affections?”

She groaned, pinching her nose. “No. No other man. Has a woman ever said no to you before, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He paused, clearly taken aback.

“Well,” she smoothed the tablecloth, the wrinkle in the bottom corner was annoying her, “let me be the first, then. No, I am not interested in a courtship, nor do I think I have any interest in a courtship—with you or anyone—so do not take it terribly too personally.” 

“Never? Don’t you plan to have a family of your own?”

“I already have a family,” she said simply. “I have no time for foolish ideas of having an adoring husband, three beautiful babies and a peaceful life out in the country.”

“That seems awfully specific—”

“No matter,” she waved. “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Bridgerton, I am flattered, truly.”

She walked away, hoping to hide in the carriage the rest of the night. Was she a fool? To turn down a courtship from such a sophisticated and notable man of the ton?

Benedict seemed to think so. True to her comment, he couldn’t recall a time in which a woman had rejected his advances—never in the name of a courtship, this would be his first—so to watch her walk away stung deeply, like a thorn to his heart. He was genuinely interested in the girl, he knew it. He just needed to prove it to her.

—

Days had passed since the Bridgerton ball and (Y/N) had successfully faked a stomach ache and ‘rested’ in the carriage until the night was over and done with. She was busy in the kitchen, working hard on a batch of fresh loaves for the storefront. Flour dusted her apron—the humor not lost on her—as she thought more and more about Benedict’s proposal. 

The bell to the shop rang out, her brother’s voice gave a muffled greeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a regular day at the bakery. It was calming, to work with the dough, taking virtually nothing and creating something delicious was soothing to her soul. She continued to knead the dough, working it like clay against her palms before the door to the back swung wide open.

“(Y/N), I do believe you have a visitor,” Harry, her second eldest brother smirked. He had finally recovered enough to help around the shop again, much to their mother’s delight. “One of the gentlemen variety, if you must know.”  

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Only asked for you,” Harry shrugged. “I figured you must’ve been expecting him,” he walked closer to her, taking over the kneading, “brought you flowers and looks rather fancy.”

She wiped her hands off on the already soiled apron, clapping her hands once for good measure. “Don’t over-work those, I’ll shove your face into the oven.”

Harry’s laugh rang out through the kitchen as she braved the door to the store. She knew it was inevitable, to expect him to come and try to woo her again, though she wasn’t expecting it so soon. The door felt rough against her palms, swinging wide open to the storefront. Sure enough, a one Benedict Bridgerton was standing by the counter, eyeing the various loaves on display. 

“Ah, Miss. (Y/L/N),” Benedict said, almost bowing. “I’m delighted you could join me.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) smiled sickeningly sweet, forced beyond all measure. “What a… surprise.”

“A wonderful one, I presume?” He jested. Her eyes found the colorful bouquet quickly, she was trying her hardest to not make eye contact. It was ornate—fancy, just like her brother said—decked out in a healthy mix of wild blooms and expensive looking flowers. “Ah! My apologies, these are for you,” Benedict said, lifting the bouquet across the counter. 

She reluctantly took them, cradling the bunch as if it were a newborn babe. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He swallowed thickly at the formality of his name, but bit his tongue. “I must say, you looked exquisite at the ball, but I think your natural element suits you more favorably, why, you’re practically glowing.” Benedict pointed to her floured apron and messy frock, having been in the kitchen all morning. “Less flour than the first time.”

Her grip tightened around the bouquet. “Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps another order for your mother?”

The man shook his head, laughing lightly. “No, no order. I just wished to see you.” The bluntness of his answer nearly shocked her, but the effect wore quickly.

“Perhaps I wished the opposite?”

“Oh, my dear,” Benedict practically mewled. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come out here in the first place, now would you?”

Like a gaping trout, she had no reply. Perhaps he was right. She didn’t have to come out to the front of the store, the gnawing curiosity got the better of her and practically pulled her through that door. 

“If you are here to try to get me to change my mind—”

“I wish to spend the afternoon with you.”

She blinked.

“Just one afternoon, allow me to try and prove how serious I am about courting you,” Benedict said earnestly. “After that, if you are still of the same mind, I will never bother you again. You have my word.”

Hesitantly, she lowered the bouquet, her shoulders slumping. She was thinking so hard about his offer, Benedict swore he could see steam rising from her ears. “I… cannot just leave the bakery, it’s my family’s livelihood—”

“I’ll buy the lot,” Benedict said, pressing a handful of coins onto the counter top. “Sell me whatever it is you make in a day—a small price to pay for a moment of your time.”

“You cannot simply throw your money at things and expect it to always work out for you, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said sternly, eyeing the sack of coins longingly. She would be kidding herself if the offer didn’t sound appealing. “I am no woman on the corner, you cannot buy my time.”

“Then consider it a tip,” Benedict hummed, pushing the bag closer to her. “For your excellent service at the Bridgerton ball. Nothing nefarious, nothing expected of you. Just a man buying some bread.”

“Loads of bread,” (Y/N) mumbled, quickly calculating how many loaves he truly was willing to walk out with. The amount of money was unclear, but if she had to wager, he practically bought out the whole storefront. Her parents would be thrilled—they could even take a rare day off, just because their daughter spent the afternoon with a practical stranger. “Fine. One afternoon.”

The glee that washed across his body did not go unnoticed, he practically lit up the room with his joy.

“You won’t regret this,” he said seriously. “Trust that my intentions are pure and—”

“—honest and true,” she droned, finishing his thought. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

Benedict nodded. “Right. Well, shall we?”

“Will you allow me a moment to change? I do not think you wish to spend your day with a girl caked in flour.”

“Funny enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he grinned. She was unamused. “But, if you insist.”

It didn’t take long for her to clean up, a change in her frock and a readjustment to her hair was all that was needed. She found herself staring in her mirror a bit longer than usual, taking in her features. Could he really be interested in her? He seemed so taken by her looks when she herself considered them… so plain. She shook her head, effectively jumping out of her haze and proceeded to head back downstairs to meet her suitor for the afternoon. 

“Perhaps you were right,” Benedict said softly. “This may be your best look to date.”

A heat warmed her cheeks and it wasn’t the summer sun. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Ah!” Benedict waved a finger. “If we are to spend the afternoon together, I insist you call me by my given name.”

Her lips pressed together in protest. “If you insist—”

“Oh and I do, my darling,” Benedict nearly sang.

“Benedict,” she corrected. “What sorts of plans do you have for this afternoon? Surely you did not produce such a grand gesture only to leave our day up to chance.”

“I am feeling quite parched,” Benedict said, almost ignoring her comment. “Care for a spot of tea?” In their walk down the street, he had managed to stop right in front of a quaint little tea shop. She hardly noticed.

“And if I do not care for tea?”

“I hear they have excellent scones and biscuits,” Benedict countered. “Surely not sweeter than you, but delicious all the same.”

“Sweeter than my scones, you mean?”

Benedict raised a brow, puckering his lips lightly. She heard him correctly the first time. “So. Tea?”

They sat at a small table near the back of the shop, a hot pot of herbal tea sat between them. It looked entirely domestic, a pot of tea shared between lovers, any onlooker could have deduced as much.

“Pass the honey?” (Y/N) pointed to the small jar next to Benedict’s hand. He nodded and pushed it closer to her.

“You take your tea with honey?” He probed.

“Herbal tea, yes,” she confirmed, stirring a spoonful into her cup. “If it is black tea, a healthy amount of milk is entirely welcomed in my drink, no sugar.”

“Interesting,” Benedict said, watching her intently stir the honey until it dissolved into the hot liquid. “I prefer plain black tea myself, though occasionally my brother Colin will bring exquisite teas from his travels across the seas.”

“And Colin is which brother?” The question slipped out quickly, she hardly noticed she had asked.

“One of my two younger brothers,” Benedict smiled gently. “Not much younger than I, but I do have a few years on him, not as many as I have on Gregory, of course. He’s practically the babe of the family—save for sweet Hyacinth.”

“Eight children…” She thought aloud. “Were your parents working towards a record number?”

“I always jest that they wished to complete the entire alphabet,” Benedict mused. “But, alas, twenty six seems a bit much.” He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the lingering aroma. “So, you know there are eight of us?”

“Everyone knows your family,” she said simply. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“Of course,” he hummed into his cup, a smile brewing from his lips. “You have siblings, yes? I believe I met your brother earlier.”

“Two older brothers,” (Y/N) groaned lightly. “Jack and Harry, the latter being the one you met. They are… oh how do I put this? Exceptionally irritating.”

Benedict laughed into his drink. “Sounds quite a lot like my siblings.”

“My parents expect Jack to take over the bakery,” she explained quietly, her voice lowering. “But he has no desire to bake whatsoever. He can hardly make a sponge cake.”

“And a sponge cake is…?”

“One of the most basic cake recipes a baker can learn,” she continued. “I usually end up being the one who pulls the slack Jack creates.”

“And Harry?”

“When he isn’t galavanting across town with the ladies of the night, he is holed up in his room doing Lord knows what. Certainly nothing that helps the family business.”

“You care a lot about your family and the business,” Benedict said, stating what is clearly the obvious. “Surely your parents see it too?”

“Oh no,” she shook her head wildly. “That is the most asinine part of the ordeal! They simply do not see me as an asset to the bakery—something that should rightfully be mine should the time come.” She sighed, throwing her head into her hands. “But, I am expected to keep my head down and decorate cakes like a good girl.”

“You say that as if you are their pet,” Benedict scoffed lightly. “Do they truly expect such obedience from you?”

“I wasn’t wanted,” she said simply. “My parents merely wanted a son to take over the business—Jack, he’s the oldest. Good for nothing, as it turns out. Harry was to have an extra set of hands around the bakery, but now he’s their prodigal child. Me? I was shacked with an over glorified closet for a room because there truly was no space for me.” She sniffled. “At least they got a decorator out of it.”

Benedict tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re more than a decorator. Surely your parents see that too?”

“They’ll see some use of me when I get home,” she said into her cup. “Seeing as you bought out our store just to spend a measly few hours with me. I’m sure that in of itself is worth having an accidental daughter.”

Benedict all but scoffed at this. “You cannot be serious.”

“Not everyone comes from loving families that wish to do nothing more than pop out babies left and right,” (Y/N) deadpanned, placing her cup back on the table. “If it were truly up to my parents, they would’ve stopped after Jack. But, much like the society you come from, an heir and a spare, I suppose.”

“And you?” Benedict almost felt afraid to ask. 

“It’s like you said,” she finished her cup of tea. “I am simply a pet.”

Benedict was never one for fights, but he suddenly had the urge to put his fist through a handful of faces in that moment. “That’s awful.” It was all he could say. 

“That’s life,” she shrugged, picking up a biscuit and examining it closely. Her nose scrunched. “If you were trying to gain my favor, perhaps you should’ve taken me somewhere with better biscuits. It’s insulting to a baker to see such poorly made ones, especially in a place like this.”

He knew she was trying to change the subject. “I shall do better next time.”

“Yes, I suppose you—” she stopped. “That was a rotten trick and you know it.”

“I am certainly no magician, (Y/N),” Benedict finished his tea, hiding the most devilish of smiles from behind the cup. “But seeing as we’re finished with our pot, perhaps we can take a turn about the park?”

“You’d risk public outcry and a scandal for being seen with a commoner in the park?” (Y/N) asked, pulling herself from her seat. “What would Lady Whistledown say?”

“You know of Lady Whistledown?”

“Everyone knows of Lady Whistledown,” she scoffs. “I may not have the pleasure to afford her column every time she publishes, but occasionally our regulars will leave their pamphlet for me once they’re finished.”

“Only read the good bits, I take it?”

“As much as I don’t understand the world you come from, Benedict, reading Whistledown helps me fill the gaps I am so obviously lacking. Truly, even if I did grow up in your society, I doubt I’d be able to understand much more than I do now anyway.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Benedict said, a laugh escaping through his nose. “I’m not one for society anyway—never cared much for it.”

“Surely news of this would cause a scandal, though?”

“News that I am simply walking in the park with a friend? Oh how the newsboys will have trouble selling that story,” Benedict mused, leaning down towards the lady. “Perhaps if we were seen doing something less proper, I suppose. Do you wish to be doing something less proper, (Y/N)?”

She didn’t dignify his question with a response, though, the rouge on her cheeks was answer enough.

—

It only took a handful of minutes to walk to the park, the tea shop was so close already. How convenient.

The other ladies in the park, the ones of a more genteel breeding, they were dressed finer than anything (Y/N) could have put on. She felt out of place. She usually did, of course, but something about her outdated frock in contrast to how striking Benedict looked and dressed? It felt rather foolish. 

Perhaps it was the notoriety of the Bridgerton walking beside her, or the self consciousness of being underdressed enough to catch the eyes of anyone walking past, but it felt like she was a spectacle—something in a museum or on display. She was holding bright light, nearly shouting at everyone that she was not enough, not worthy to be in this park, let alone with this man.

“I am tired of walking,” (Y/N) said suddenly. 

“We have only just begun,” he laughed. “But if you require a respite—”

“Let’s sit,” (Y/N) said just as quickly, practically running to the edge of the pond. Perfectly out of sight to everyone.

“How secluded,” Benedict mused. “I daresay, I never thought you’d be so agreeable—”

“Hush,” (Y/N) admonished, holding a finger up. “I am simply in need of a break—away from prying eyes.”

Benedict nodded, not daring to pry further. He watched her slump to the ground, her dress skirt billowing around her like a cloud before settling to the gravity. He continued to stand. “I rather like this park.”

“A park is a park.”

“Have you been before?”

“Here?” She shook her head. “Obviously not.”

“My family, we would come to London during the social season,” Benedict explained. “Our usual residence is out in Kent—anyhow, my father had this spectacular notion to come to the park every week as a family. Looking back, it was probably to save face and show a united Bridgerton front.”

She looked up at Benedict, who was currently plucking a few leaves off of the low hanging branches of the tree. “Sounds wise.”

“He was the wisest,” Benedict agreed. “Keeping the ever-growing number of Bridgerton children entertained became a sport. Anthony, Colin and I were always squabbling, drove my mother rightfully insane, so, my father had a bright idea.”

“Paste your lips together?” She offered. 

Benedict knelt down, close to the edge of the water. “No, but I do not doubt that idea crossed their minds,” he laughed, bringing the leaves in his hands to view, “my father suggested racing.”

“Horse racing?”

He shook his head. “We’d each pick a leaf and follow it to the other edge of the pond—kept us entertained for hours, running back and forth to reset our leaves and chase them down.”

“Smart man,” she hummed, genuinely impressed by the late viscount’s cleverness.

“So, pick your contender,” Benedict said softly, displaying the spare leaves like cards in a deck. 

“You are serious?”

“Dead serious, I’m afraid,” Benedict clicked, pushing his hand a bit closer to her. “Come on, humor me.”

She looked down at the leaves and back up at Benedict, his blue eyes rivaling the color of the pond. Taking an interest in the middle leaf—it was the longest and skinniest—she plucked it from his fingers. “This one.”

“Excellent choice,” Benedict said cheerily, dropping the other leaves. “I am more inclined to a smaller one—seems they move faster down the shore.”

“Size isn’t everything, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) crossed her arms, resting them on her knees. She would never dare to admit it out loud, but she was having a bit of fun.

“Ah, perhaps not,” Benedict jested with her, her jab not even shocking him in the slightest. “But, I reckon it will be a close match regardless.”

After insuring that the lovely lady in his company was watching his movements closely, he set the leaves down on the surface of the water. “Finish line is by that tree over there,” he pointed, finally letting go with his other hand.

“May the best leaf win,” she giggled. Giggled? Good Lord. A crooked grin cracked on his face, focused too intently at the company rather than the match at hand. “Are you not going to chase them?”

“And leave you?” He scoffed. “Perish the thought.”

“I just thought,” her gaze was caught on the leaves, still floating down the edge of the pond—slower than she anticipated, “well, I suppose I wanted to get the whole picture of your family tradition.”

“Shall I run along the coast, then?” Benedict asked playfully, rising back to his feet, thumb pushed towards the water. 

“Only to humor me,” she shrugged, not even fighting the smile on her face. 

“Well, in that case,” Benedict began to remove his jacket, throwing it beside her. With a light jog he caught up to the leaves, they hadn’t gone very far anyway, perhaps if it were a windier day he’d have a faster time to keep up with. “You are in the lead!” He called out. 

“Brilliant!” Her hands were clasped around her mouth, a cone to help amplify her shout. His smile was like the sun, warm and inviting—she wished she could spend the day in such a warmth. Benedict practically jumped for joy when the leaves made it to the final stretch, crossing to the rocks on the shore. Nearly falling into the water, he managed to scoop the leaves up and jog back to the woman in the grass. “Well?”

“Well, what?” He asked, nearly out of breath, smile still pulling his lips upward. 

“The winner?”

“Ah,” he fell to the ground, sitting comfortably next to the baker’s daughter, pocketing the leaves. “A secret.”

“So you lost?”

“Oh, I assure you, if you won I would be celebrating you until the end of our time together,” Benedict sang. “However…”

“I lost?” She scoffed. 

“A gentleman is humble in his successes,” he explained carefully. “We could go again?”

“No,” she said, humor in her voice. “I think that was more than enough excitement for one afternoon.”

“For once, we agree,” he said. “May I…? Could I ask you a question?”

“If you are proposing marriage, I am afraid I’ll have to decline—”

“No, no,” he laughed heartily. “Nothing of that sort.”

“I suppose I could find it in myself to answer a different question, then.”

“You were cold to me this morning,” Benedict noted, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. “But not on the day we met. What changed?”

She sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, gaze locked out on the now setting sun. “I… am not entirely sure.”

“Surely it was not the leaves—”

“The leaves may have helped,” she admitted. “Humanized you, in a way.”

“Was I inhuman before?”

“Naturally,” she retorted. “I mean, is it not obvious?”

“You were protecting your feelings,” Benedict finally realized. “All this time. You did not wish to be hurt—truly afraid I was merely stringing you along as an elaborate prank or ruse? Is that right?”

“How could someone like you ever have an interest in a pauper like me? The baker’s daughter and the son of a viscount?” Tears dotted her eyes, threatening to fall. How she came so close to crying was beyond her. “It seems implausible.”

Benedict dropped the grass, fully looking at the lady beside him. She had made herself nearly as small as she felt. He had hit the nail on the head. A gust of wind blew by, bringing leaves down from the tree above. 

“I do not think less of you because of whose daughter you are,” Benedict said softly, removing a stray leaf from her hair. His fingers guided her head towards him, begging for her to look his way. “I care only about you. Getting to know you. Frankly, your father seems like a mostly alright man, but I do not wish to know him the way I wish to know you.”

“You may wish for that,” she sniffled. “But what would the rest of your world think? You, trying to court a woman below your status—”

“The only people who should be caring so deeply about my potential courtship are my intended and me,” Benedict said sharply. “The rest of the ton can frankly kiss my rear end.”

This raised a laugh out of her. It was bubbly and pure, almost like the one of a child. “You truly don’t care what people think about you?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I do not.”

“How freeing that must be,” she said. 

“Being the second son has its perks,” Benedict looked at her, really looked at her. “No one expects me to be proper all the time. I am given the freedom—financially and otherwise—to do as I please. I do not have to worry about inheriting a title, siring heirs, that is my brother’s responsibility.”

“Why me?”

His head quirked. “I do not understand?”

“You could court any girl of the ton,” she said. “And I am sure more than half of them would never turn down a chance to be courted by a Bridgerton—”

“They wished for the title,” Benedict sighed. “To be Viscountess Bridgerton, to marry my older brother and have the notoriety. That ship has already sailed, I'm afraid. You are kind in thinking that many women would be after me though.”

“You are not ugly,” she listed, “you have a great humor about you, a pleasant demeanor and a kindness in your eyes. The women of the ton must be foolish, then.”

“Perhaps the foolish one is you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You truly think those things about me?” He asked, awaiting a response. Her jaw was slack, clearly not about to give him any sort of confirmation to his question. “I believe your words, I do. But perhaps you should look at yourself with such eyes?”

“I-I don’t understand—”

“Our class differences aside,” Benedict said, as if it was easy to just ignore that, “while I was taken by your beauty at first—your eyes are something the Gods themselves forged in the fires, stars rivaling their shine—it was your continuous personality that kept my attention. Granted, it helped you were once covered head-to-toe in flour, it really brought out your features.”

Her cheeks flared at the recollection of their first meeting. “It was not my finest moment.”

“And you were vulnerable all the same,” he continued. “You cared not for who I was, yet, you showed an interest in me anyway. You may not agree with that statement, but you and I know it to be true in some shape or form. The only thing that holds you back is this notion on our classes—”

“Perhaps I am interested in you,” (Y/N) cut him off. “Perhaps I wish to be courted by you, attend balls and dress in pretty gowns, drinking expensive drinks and whispering sweet nothings. But that is all that it is—a wish. I know my place in this world, it is a right shame you have such a fantasy about yours.”

“(Y/N)…”

“No,” she stood up, brushing the blades of grass and leaves off of her skirt. “I hoped that you would understand, Benedict. I agreed to this afternoon because it felt like I had no choice in the matter—you practically bought my time, after all. What I did not expect,” she hiccuped, “I did not expect that I would enjoy such an afternoon.”

“You enjoyed yourself,” Benedict rose to his feet, desperate to match her gaze head on. “Why can you not allow yourself to have that joy? Allow your heart to follow its call?”

“I do not have such liberties to listen to my heart,” (Y/N) said softly. “I must use my head for every choice I make. An afternoon with you allowed my family to have enough money to make it through the end of the season without going hungry—”

“And an afternoon with me has brought such happiness to fill your soul for much longer—”

“Happiness has little importance,” she scoffed. “I would rather see my family healthy and surviving than even think about a notion like happiness or joy.”

“You have said yourself that your family treats you like a pet,” Benedict took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He needn’t explode in the park. “Why do you care so much about them if they care so little for you?”

“Because it is all that I know!” The candle had finally reached its end, burning out with a sizzle. “All I have ever known is my life in the bakery, rising early to make the dough, peddling samples to those walking by and hoping—praying—that they step in our store and purchase something. Because a sale of a few loaves of bread or cakes meant we could afford to buy vegetables for a soup, something to eat with our days old bread.”

“If you were with me, you wouldn’t ever need to think about things like that again,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on a whisper. “I could support you, support your family.”

“And that is precisely why I do not wish to continue this,” she raised her finger. “I do not need an affluent man to come and save me—”

“But I could help—”

“I do not need your help!”

“You obviously do!”

She took a step back, the tears from before finally reappearing in her eyes. “O-obviously? Because I am of a lower class you believe, in that giant and empty head of yours, that you can simply win my favor by saving me? Offering riches and experiences that I should be grateful and thanking every God that will listen that you are even willing to give me?”

“You know that is not what I meant—” 

“You believe that because you are who you are, and I am who I am, that I couldn’t possibly say no to you,” her gaze flicked with anger, a fire looming. “While the ladies of the ton have their choices, I do not, so it makes it easy for you to pine over someone who simply has no choice in the matter.”

“No—(Y/N)—”  

“This afternoon has been lovely,” (Y/N) spat, looking to the skyline—the sun had finally set, “but I am afraid that the afternoon is over. I shall be taking my leave.”

“Please reconsider,” Benedict begged, willing to try anything to get her to stay. “I wish to know you.”

“A shame, then,” (Y/N) said, turning around. “Wishing for something so foolish.”

—

“Her head is in the clouds,” Jack whispered.

“No, I reckon her head is in the dough,” Harry mumbled back to his brother. 

“I can hear you, you know,” (Y/N) ground out, working hard on a rather unruly clump of dough that simply would not cooperate. “And if I can hear you, you are close enough to be helping.”

“But that is so exhausting," Harry groaned, leaning against the countertop. “Besides, how are you ever going to impress your betrothed if you do not keep such toned arms?”

She threw the dough against the counter—hard. “He is not my betrothed.”

“But you wish for him to be, no?” Jack giggled, playing with a few burnt buns—a mishap of his own creation.

“I say, Sister,” Harry said. “Why do you not pursue that Bridgerton? He clearly is interested in you, or, have you forgotten all of the flowers he has sent?”

The front of the shop was practically a florist’s dream—covering every free inch of counter space with beautiful bouquets. Her mother simply refused to throw out such lovely blooms, even going so far as to fish the first one out of the trash after her daughter made quick work to dispose of it. “How could I possibly forget about the man who continuously flaunts his wealth to get what he wants?”

“He wants you, surely that is not lost on you?”

“Of course not,” she continued to knead, a few hairs falling into her face. “But he is so insistent on getting me to agree to his whims simply because—”

“He has money, (Y/N),” Jack scoffed. “Good money. Christ, you spent half of a day with him a few weeks ago and we were able to finally purchase meat for dinner. Imagine if you married him—”

“So you want your sister to be married off for your own financial gain?”

“What else would you marry for?” Harry laughed. “Love?”

She stopped kneading. “Why do you not go and try to marry a wealthy lady, then? Hm? Surely a woman of genteel breeding would be much taken by the idea of a rugged baker—”

“That Bridgerton is already interested,” Harry shrugged. “At the very least, if you end up with child he would provide enough funds—”

“First you wish to marry me off, now you wish for me to have his bastard?” She couldn’t help but laugh, ignoring her hard work on the counter. “Why can I not make my own choice? I do not wish to be with Mr. Bridgerton, I wish to stay here at the bakery.”

“Fucking stupid,” Jack scoffed. “If I were in your shoes, I would let the gentleman pay for anything my heart desires—forget about this wretched place and move on with my life.”

“And abandon our legacy?”

“You mean my legacy,” Jack corrected. “I am to inherit the bakery, it is my birthright. You? I suppose I will allow you to continue your grunt work here—” 

“Who else will do the baking?” Her voice rang throughout the kitchen. “Mother and Father are nearing the end of their career, both becoming too frail to continue with the rigorous task of this place. I am the only one—the only competent member of this family who can keep this shit afloat! And you want me to just… give that up?”

Jack stood a little straighter. “It was never your place.”

“Harry is set to inherit the bakery now, you know it. Yet someone had to fill the shoes of the family fuck-up instead, no?” 

It was a sharp pain, suddenly and all at once against her cheek. It took her only half a second later to realize what had happened, her other brother’s face was only a confirmation on the fact.

“Jack, what the hell?!” Harry practically screamed. “You hit her?”

“She insulted me!”

“You deserved it,” Harry said, pushing his older brother back. “She only spoke the truth—”

“So I am allowed to be walked over by my baby sister?” Jack scoffed, pushing Harry back. “A woman? No fucking chance, mate.”

Her hand had covered her cheek, already feeling warm to the touch. Everything was too much, too loud, too bright. She had to get out of there, had to forget all about the dough on the counter, forgetting all about the brother who had just smacked her silly. The back door wasn’t locked—no surprise as Jack was the last one to use it—making it easy for her to push into the alleyway and into the rain. 

Rain. 

Pelting like bullets, the wet drenched her clothing in a mere instant, making it harder to escape. Where had she planned to run anyway? She had nowhere to go, her entire world was contained to the four walls of the bakery, never daring to explore the rest of it, not when her world was already so encompassing, so inviting. 

In theory, anyway, it seemed.

So, she ran. A mix of running and walking, she kept moving forward. By the time she left her part of town, she knew her brothers would not bother coming for her. The rain alone was a deterrent, even Harry, the one who loved her more, wouldn’t dare to brave the elements just to reel his sister’s whims in. 

A splotch of purple entered her vision. How long had she been moving? Did she even expect to come here? Did her subconscious send her in this direction for a reason?

She knocked on the bright door before she could find out.

“Good evening, ma’am,” a butter said politely. “What business do you have?”

“I am here to call upon Benedict Bridgerton.”

—

His quill had soaked the parchment below with ink, having left the tip upon it for far too long. He had been lost in thought, contemplative, especially the last few weeks. Benedict knew he had hurt her, had insulted her very being, yet he still tried. Every other day he’d send a fresh bouquet to the bakery, a new poem attached to the stems. Perhaps she read them? He knew it was more likely that she burned them, in the ovens or otherwise. 

At the very least, he knew that the blooms were being displayed at the shop. Hope. That is what it had given him.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you have a caller,” a butler knocked, opening his door a crack wider.

“A caller? In this weather?”

“She seemed rather insistent,” the butler shrugged. “She is waiting in the drawing room—I already sent for tea and towels for the lady.”

“A lady is here to see me?” Benedict quirked his brow.

“A Miss. (Y/L/N),” the butler said. “No calling card, soaked to the bone and she seemed a bit… out of sorts.”

Benedict had already risen from his desk, practically pushing past the staff member to reach the stairs. Missing a step or two, he made it to the drawing room and shoved the door open. In the center of the blue room was (Y/N), dripping onto the wooden floor, shaking like a leaf.

“(Y/N)…” 

“I-I had nowhere else to go,” she began to explain. “I did not even realize I was here until I knocked on the door. It was foolish—”

“No,” Benedict shook his head, reaching to take her hand in his own. “It is quite alright. You are more than welcome to be here.”

His hands were warm, or perhaps she was just that cold, making them feel like a fire. “I am so sorry, Benedict.”

“For what?” He asked genuinely. 

“Everything?” She offered. “I-I am not sure of what, exactly, but I feel that I need to apologize.”

“You needn’t apologize for anything,” he said. “Not with me, not ever.”

She looked up at the ceiling, afraid to make contact with his blue stare. “I needed to get away. My brother he—Jack hit me.”

Benedict froze, his entire body went rigid. “I’ll kill him.”

“I suppose I deserved it,” she shrugged, now looking at the ground. “Talking back to him, assuming things that could never be—” 

“A man has assaulted you,” Benedict squeezed her hand tighter. “Brother or not, he put his hands on you. You did nothing of the sort to deserve such a thing.”

“I don’t think I can go back there,” (Y/N) said softly. “Perhaps this was just the moment that gave me clarity. Opened my eyes, so to speak.”

Benedict took a good look at her face, red and splotchy, whether it was from the smack or the tears, he could not tell. “Tea is on the way, I shall request a cold compress for your cheek—”

“I do not wish to impose.”

“You shall wish for nothing here,” Benedict said quietly, firmly. “You will stay until the rain lets up, or, you provide me with a suggestible plan for your next steps.”

“I cannot go back,” she finally looked up at Benedict. “As much as I would like to, I simply cannot.”

“If you do not want to go back, I will support you. If you want to leave town, the country even, I will support you,” he said seriously. “Please allow me to support you.”

“I could never ask you for that—”

“You are not asking, I am offering,” he clarified. 

“Benedict…”

The rain seemed to lessen, if the pelting against the window had anything to say about it. The noise had dimmed, not as violent as before. “To know that you are safe, that you are cared for, that is all I care about.”

So, in the center of the blue Bridgerton drawing room, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the floor, she kissed him. It was a sudden thing, pulling him down towards her lips, the contact much quicker than she had expected. He returned the favor in kind, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, kissing her in a way he had yet to truly experience. 

If his hands were like a fire, his lips were an inferno. Fighting for dominance, it was all encompassing. How had she gone so long without a feeling such as this? The burn was coming from inside, not a superficial one atop her skin as she was quite used to, but this burn, this feeling, she could find herself craving this. 

“I-I am sorry—” she pulled away.

“Never be sorry,” Benedict shook his head. “Not for that, not ever.”

“I should not have done that…”

“No,” he agreed, a chuckle leaving his lips, “but how exhilarating it felt, regardless.”

His thumb ran lazy circles on her jaw. She leaned into the touch. “I do not know what to do, where to go…”

“But you cannot stay here…?”

She smiled sadly. “You know me scarily well, Benedict.”

He thought for a moment. “So… leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave town, leave the country—”

“I do not have the means to do such a silly thing.”

“I will pay your way.”

She scoffed, trying to pull out of his embrace. He wouldn’t release his grip. “Benedict…”

“I told you, I wish to support you. Emotionally, financially, I want to be there for you,” Benedict said. “Even if we are not—if you do not want to be together romantically, I want to ensure your safety and your health, your well-being. A friend.”

She tried to find the lie in his eyes, in his tone. Coming up empty, she had no excuse to not believe him. 

“France,” he said, as if struck by lightning.

“France?”

“I hear only the expert bakers study in France—I have no doubts you could go to learn,” he explained. “I could pay for your travel, housing, you name it. Ask for it, and it is yours.”

“I doubt anyone would want to teach a woman, no matter how lovely a thought it might be.”

“I have a cousin,” Benedict explained. “Her and her husband own a café—I am quite certain that they would love to hire an expert baker to add to their inventory and menu. You could earn your own income, make your own way. A fresh start.”

“A fresh start…” she repeated. “That sounds too good to be true.”

“I shall write to her in the morning,” Benedict said, holding her hands again. 

“And you…?”

“I will only come with you if you want me to join,” Benedict said slowly. “I will not trap you. I want your happiness, your freedom.”

She nodded, understanding.

“I think France sounds nice,” she smiled. “Will you write to me?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if you are vexed with me?”

“Especially if I am vexed with you.”

She kissed his lips again, sweeter and softer than the first time.

“Sounds perfect.”

—

A year. An entire year had passed and she couldn’t recall a happier time in her life. The only time that something could have rivaled it was a visit to a tea shop followed by a respite by a pond—in handsome company all the while. 

They kept correspondence, just like they promised. Every week came a new letter, a new story to be told by the poetic Benedict Bridgerton. She tried to rival his words, explaining every detail about France, about her new life, but something was nagging. She missed him. They had grown close over the correspondence, leaving her heart wanting more. But, she knew when she left for France it was to fulfill her dreams, leaving a foolish notion like love on the back burner.

“(Y/N),” Marie, the Bridgerton cousin, called out behind her. “We are in need of more buns.”

“I just restocked the buns,” (Y/N) giggled, turning to the blonde. “What? Has someone mysteriously bought the lot?”

“Oui,” Marie said with a jest, heading into the storage room, “perhaps you should go bring more out?”

“You are in luck, the last batch just finished resting from the oven,” she said, carrying a tray on her shoulder, “I will bring them out with haste.”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

(Y/N) faltered, hand already pressed to the door leading to the front shop. A tingle ran through her spine, her heart picking up to a freeing flutter. 

Could it be?

“You know, I would buy your entire stock,” the man hummed, looking thoughtfully into the display case, “but I fear I would be recreating a rather taxing memory for the both of us.”

“Benedict,” she gasped, nearly dropping her tray. 

“You look radiant,” he mused, that wicked grin of his breaking on his face. “Much like the first time I saw you—covered in flour.”

“I am in my element,” (Y/N) said sweetly, “just as you would expect.” She had noticed that Marie and her husband were not in the café, the sign flipped to close. “You planned this.”

“Do you insinuate that I bribed my distant cousin to close her café to give you the day off, travel all the way to France, hoping I could spend the day with you?” Benedict scoffed playfully. “You truly do not know me at all.”

“I do not think Marie would take a bribe,” (Y/N) said slyly, knowing how much of a champion the cousin had been for the baker and viscount’s son to get together.

“She refused payment,” he admitted, agreeing with her notion. “But, was ever eager to see you get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself.”

“You hadn’t written to me in two weeks,” (Y/N) said, walking around the counter. “I was worried.”

“I needed to refrain from our correspondence, I fear I would have let the surprise slip otherwise.”

“Smart man,” she hummed.

“I am known to be smart occasionally,” he shrugged.

“What are you doing here?” She finally asked. “N-not that I am not happy to see you, of course, but as you had said, this is a surprise.”

“I came to study art,” Benedict said, a hand in his coat pocket. “I felt that if I truly wanted to learn the craft, I needed to learn from the masters—many of their works are housed here in France. I even began to rent a little home in town, finding the need to stay a while.”

“That is the only reason?”

Benedict’s gaze softened. “Of course it is not the only reason.”

Her heart fluttered again.

“It is only fair that I try this again, correctly and without the prying eyes of society, this time,” Benedict said, clearing his throat and spinning around.

“Correctly?” She giggled, watching him twirl to face the door.

“Ah, good morning miss!” Benedict said, turning back to face (Y/N). “I must say, you look ever-so-pretty—tell me, do all bakers have a beauty such as your own?”

“I would wager no,” she said, trying to keep serious. “Most of the bakers around here are men.”

“Shame. Might I learn your name? It seems only fair—I fear I might just die if I do not know the sweet sound of it.”

“(Y/N),” she sang. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Benedict Bridgerton,” he stretched out his hand, reaching for her own. She allowed him to take it, a soft kiss was placed on the back of her cracked hand—a working hand, one that she was proud to have. 

“You are very charming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she hummed, looking deeply into his blue eyes. “Pleased to make your company.”

“I assure you, I am more pleased to be in yours,” Benedict insisted, kissing her hand again. “Tell me, do you have plans this afternoon?”

“It seems my schedule has cleared up,” she looked to the sign on the door and sighed. “Why? Do you have any suggestions on how I should spend it?”

“Might we take a turn around the park? A friend of mine has written to me about just how lovely one nearby is, I reckon I would like to see it for myself.”

She smiled brightly at him, as if he held the world in his hands. Instead, he held two leaves between his fingers—brown and cracked, but clearly treated with such care. They had been the same ones from their time at the park the first go around, she was nearly certain. Why else would he bring dead leaves with him?

"Leaves?"

"You see, my family, we have this tradition of racing with leaves—I would very much like to share it with you. These two in particular seem to be very lucky, thought it would be best to bring them along."

His smile melted her heart, endearing and thoughtful in the same breath. She could get used to a smile like that.

“Well… what are we waiting for, Mr. Bridgerton?”

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MY OTP!!!

Reblog if you are Team Dexter&Rita

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Speak Now

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Childhood BFF!Reader

Warnings: Mutual Pining, Jealousy, Angst, Smutty Undertones, Grand Romantic Gesture, Anthony being completely unhinged in love. 18+

Word Count: 4,500k

Requested?: Yes, “can i pretty please request anthony bridgerton x childhood bff! reader, where the reader was on the altar and about to marry somebody else. but then anthony objected. very much inspired by taylor swift's "speak now" <33”- Anon

You and Anthony Bridgerton had been inseparable since childhood—two halves of a whole, bound by years of laughter, whispered secrets, and an unspoken understanding that neither of you had ever dared to define.

You were the one who kept him grounded when the weight of his family’s expectations pressed too heavily upon his shoulders, and he was the one who made you feel truly seen in a world where noblewomen were expected to be nothing more than dutiful daughters and future wives.

Anthony became Viscount. You became a woman of marriageable age.

Yet, as the years passed and the demands of society became inescapable, that easy friendship shifted. Anthony, ever the dutiful Viscount, had vowed to marry for duty, not love. And you—his dearest friend—had resigned yourself to the same fate.

Still, there were moments. Moments where his touch lingered a second too long, where his gaze softened as he watched you from across the ballroom, where his voice dropped to a whisper when he said your name. Moments where you thought—hoped—that maybe he felt it too.

But then came her.

Kate Sharma was everything a Viscountess ought to be: sharp, intelligent, and someone who challenged Anthony in all the ways a Bridgerton wife should.

You had seen the way he looked at her, the way his stiff resolve wavered in her presence. And because you were his best friend—because you loved him in ways you never admitted aloud—you helped him pursue her.

“I believe she is the perfect match for you,” you had told him one evening, forcing a smile even as your heart cracked in two.

And then, as if fate had a cruel sense of humor, your parents arranged a match for you as well.

Lord Andrew Montrose was kind, intelligent, and someone who had been part of your shared circle since childhood. Marrying him made sense. If you could not have love, you could at least have companionship.

So, you did what was expected.

You accepted Lord Andrew Montrose.

And Anthony? He had congratulated you with a strained smile, his hand gripping yours just a little too tightly.

Neither of you spoke about what it meant. Neither of you dared to.

And Anthony—fool that he was—let you go.

-

The first time Anthony felt it—the deep, burning rage that told him he was making the biggest mistake of his life—was at a Bridgerton ball.

You were in Montrose’s arms.

You were smiling.

And he was touching you.

Anthony saw red.

He didn’t think. Didn’t care.

He strode across the ballroom, cutting in without a word. “May I steal her for a dance?”

It was not a request.

Montrose hesitated. But you? You knew.

Your throat bobbed, your pulse visible at the delicate line of your neck.

Then—you nodded.

Anthony’s hand wrapped around yours. His fingers were hot, searing, as he pulled you into the waltz, holding you far too close.

His breath ghosted your ear. “Are you happy?”

Your lashes fluttered. “I—”

His fingers tightened on your waist, possessive. “Tell me. Do you love him?”

You hesitated.

And that was his answer.

The music stopped. The moment was over.

But before he stepped away, his fingers dragged down your arm, tracing over your wrist before slipping away.

And just before he turned, he whispered, so low only you could hear:

“I wish you didn’t have to.”

Anthony tried to let it go.

Then he saw you in Hyde Park.

Montrose’s hand was on your elbow.

He leaned in too close.

He kissed your gloved knuckles.

Anthony nearly lost his goddamn mind.

His fingers fisted at his sides. His breath turned shallow, ragged.

He had seen you dance with men. Smile at suitors. But this? This was different.

Because Montrose wasn’t just any man.

He was your future.

And Anthony Bridgerton realized he could not allow that.

-

The church was grand.

The whispers of the ton filled the air.

You stood at the altar, hands clasped with Montrose.

And your heart pounded.

Then—

“I OBJECT!”

The doors slammed open.

Gasps erupted.

And there—standing at the entrance, breathless, wild-eyed, utterly unhinged— was Anthony Bridgerton.

Andrew sighed beside you. “Bridgerton, this is highly inappropriate—”

“I do not care,” Anthony bit out.

He strode forward, eyes locked onto yours.

And then—he grabbed your wrist.

“Anthony—”

“I cannot let you do this,” he said, voice shaking.

Your breath caught.

Anthony’s grip was firm, his hands hot, his entire body vibrating with barely restrained emotion.

“I should have said it years ago,” he rasped. “I was a fool. I tried to ignore it. I tried to let you go.”

His voice dropped.

“But I cannot.”

Then, before you could breathe—

Anthony picked you up.

A gasp tore from your throat as his arms lifted you, cradling you against his chest.

The church erupted into chaos.

But Anthony did not care.

He stormed out, carrying you down the aisle like a man possessed.

“Anthony!” you shrieked, half-laughing, half-sobbing as he carried you into the streets.

“Yell at me later,” he panted, holding you tighter.

His grip never faltered. His breath was hot against your temple.

Then, his lips brushed your ear.

“Tell me you do not want this,” he whispered, his voice wrecked.

You couldn’t.

Because you wanted this.

You wanted him.

“…I love you.”

Anthony groaned.

Then—his lips crashed into yours.

Desperate. Fevered. Claiming.

And as the church bells rang—signaling the wedding that would never happen—Anthony Bridgerton kissed you like a man who had just stolen his future.

Because, in truth, he had.

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