It Had To Be You

by Fayes_Fics

Summary:

Modern AU romcom. An enemies-to-friends-to-lovers story heavily based on When Harry Met Sally.

Notes:

Originally posted on tumblr. Thanks to @colettebronte for the artwork. Please enjoy! <3

Chapter 1: A brand-new start

12 Years Ago

When you pull up outside her halls of residence, she has her tongue down some man’s throat—typical Gen.

She finally acknowledges your presence when you lower the window and cough pointedly. A few days ago, when she said her latest boyfriend needed a lift from St Andrews to London, you didn't offer; she volunteered him to join you before you could conjure a believable excuse. Someone to talk to on the long journey wouldn't be such a bad thing; you tried to convince yourself reluctantly. You were slightly worried about who he might be. Gen’s taste in men could be best described as random. Or questionable if you were feeling less charitable. But as he turns towards you, something in your chest flutters.

Oh.

He looks different to her usual choices. He appears rich, just from a glance. But the sort of rich that dresses in ratty clothes as a style choice rather than out of economic necessity. His jeans are distressed around the knees, and there’s an almost threadbare patch right around his rather shapely - don't look there, you admonish yourself - arse. He wears a faded grey t-shirt and converse that are speckled with paint.

“Y/n, meet Ben,” he nods briefly before she pulls him back for another completely inappropriate kiss.

Ben...? Really, Gen? Matching names is a bit too fucking twee.

As they break away, he tosses his bags in the boot of your car and, after another round of tonsil tennis, climbs into your passenger seat. He smiles crookedly, and you see his blueish eyes catch a ray of late Spring sun; his voice instantly makes you shift in your seat as you exchange hellos. Definitely a posh boy. Definitely a playboy. Definitely not the type to keep his bed empty for long. You already dislike him. You especially dislike how attractive your body seems to find him, despite yourself.

This is going to be a long journey.

“You want to drive the first shift?” you ask politely.

“You are already there,” he shrugs, “go right ahead.”

As Gen becomes a waving figure in your rearview mirror, something tells you you will likely never see her again. It's that time when life goes in a million different directions—the end of university. You've been here for your undergraduate course. Apparently, he has been here for his master's in Fine Arts.

“What takes you to London?” he asks as you pull out of the university grounds.

“I'm going to be a journalist,” you state proudly.

He laughs. “You and the rest of the world.”

You bristle at his amusement. You are a talented writer; you know it will happen for you someday. You have a summer internship at the Guardian. Okay, it's unpaid, but it's a start.

“You?” you shoot back, squinting in the sun.

“Artist. I’m setting up a studio in Hoxton.”

Urgh. That's so achingly trendy you actually want to smack him.

Your phone buzzes, and you check it discreetly at the next traffic light. It's from Gen.

Yep, I know exactly what you are thinking. Posh boy twat. His cock is amazing though. Safe travels x

You squeak and drop your phone into the footwell. Ben cuts you a curious sideways glance.

“I can grab it,” he offers rather chivalrously as he sees you groping blindly around your feet as the light turns green.

“No!” you startle, “it's fine, just uhh leave it there, I don't need it. I know the way to Edinburgh from here.” your voice takes on a high-pitched quality that sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.

He seems to stare at your profile for an inordinate amount of time.

“Gen said you were a little high-strung,” he says drolly.

You frown over at him. “I'm just particular,” you argue back.

He laughs and looks out the window. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I do,” you prickle, “that’s a disgusting habit, and you should give it up.”

“She said you were opinionated too,” he adds, his tone so casual and laid back it just makes you more wound up.

“My car, my rules,” you retort, glancing irritated in your rearview at the lorry getting far too familiar with your rear bumper.

“That's fair enough.”

He suddenly lunges for something in the backseat, twisting so his t-shirt rides up, his whole body thrust towards you. You see a flash of toned abdominal muscle and a tantalising line of hair disappearing into his jeans.

You quickly cut your eyes back to the road and have to slam on the brake not to hit the car in front, praying momentarily that the lorry behind is paying more attention than you are. Damn him.

“Fucking hell!” he exclaims, falling back into his seat and grabbing the dashboard to right himself.

“Sorry,” you mumble, knowing you are blushing. “Can you please not do that when I'm driving?”

“Do what?” he feigns ignorance, but you can tell he knows exactly what just happened, the cocky bastard.

“Climb into the backseat,” you grumble.

“I leaned back to grab something; I didn't climb anywhere,” he disputes, shaking a packet at you. “This is for your benefit, I might add,” he says pointedly, ripping open the box and fishing out a nicotine patch.

“Well, just sit still, please,” you huff, spying a flash of very shapely bicep out of the corner of your eye as he rolls up the sleeve and slaps on the patch.

“Yeah, not highly strung at all,” he mutters under his breath.

Yep. You absolutely want to kick him.

—

It’s almost 2 hours later and lunchtime when you pull into the services just outside Glasgow, needing a toilet break.

“Want a sausage roll?” he asks casually, stretching his limbs in a somewhat distracting manner as you lock the doors. Out of the car now, you realise he's taller than you expected; around 6 feet would be your guess.

“No thanks, I uhh don't eat that stuff. I made a salad; I'm just going to eat that,” you respond, tapping the little bag on your shoulder.

“You made a salad? For a road trip?” he looks at you like you have three heads, and again your dander is up.

“Nothing wrong with being prepared,” you sniff.

He chuckles and shrugs a shoulder as you wander into the building and agree to meet at a table after.

Just as you are neatly drizzling your salad dressing, he saunters over a bright red plastic tray in hand, holding an assortment of beige foods and a large bottle of Coke. You can’t school your horror at the contents of his plate.

“What?” he laughs, taking a seat next to you.

“If smoking doesn't kill you, that might,” you say airily.

“You really do have just so many opinions,” he looks at you as if you are some fascinating species, dons a stupid broad grin and takes a huge bite.

“Am I wrong though?” you raise an eyebrow in challenge, waiting for him to take the bait. Instead, he changes tack.

“Gen never said you were so pretty,” his statement, muffled around the sausage roll, is so matter of fact that you don't think you heard him correctly for a split-second.

“Excuse me?!?” you can't hide the disdain in your voice. “You are Gen’s boyfriend,” you say slowly.

“So?”

“So you shouldn't be flirting with me!” you explain, feeling as if it's unnecessary to do so.

He laughs so hard that some pastry sprays across the table. “I'm not!” he dismisses.

“Yes, you are!” your indignancy rising.

“Can’t I say you are pretty without it being flirtatious?” he posits.

“No!”

“Okay, fine,” he capitulates, wiping his greased fingers on a paper serviette, “I take it back.”

“Well, that’s just rude,” you huff.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don't want you to say anything! Just… don't notice me at all! You are dating my friend!” your voice again takes on that shrill quality you dislike.

“Sorry,” he raises his hands in defeat. Then after a few moments of silence where you just poke at your lettuce leaves, your eyes meet again. “Genuinely,” his hand on his chest, “I am sorry. I'm an artist. I can't help but notice objectively beautiful things. I truly meant nothing untoward,” the sincerity taking you slightly aback.

You would think it a line he’s using, but his hazy blue eyes somehow give away the truth—he means every word. You are also trying to ignore how the words, ‘objectively beautiful’, echo in your head.

“Well… just… remember, Gen is my friend; I don't want her hurt,” you volley back defensively.

“Neither do I,” he replies, taking a sip of his drink and turning to look out of the nearby window.

The fact you notice an adorable little bump in the profile of his nose is something you pretend doesn't happen.

—

It's mid-afternoon when the rain rolls in somewhere in the Borders. He had taken over driving duty at the rest stop. You were initially concerned about handing the keys to your mum’s old Ford Focus, but to be fair, he seems a sensible enough driver.

“Music?” he asks brightly as he flicks on the wipers.

“An old iPod is connected via the aux,” you shrug.

“Oh, what's on it?” he queries.

“God, all sorts. A lot of 90s indie stuff and Britpop, Im afraid.”

“Brilliant! Put on some Blur.”

You perk up. “Really? I thought us too young for Blur,” you jest.

“I’ve got a few years on you, remember?” he chuckles as you select a random shuffle of their music.

As the opening chords of Country House ring out, he starts to nod his head comedically.

“City dweller, successful fella,” you both chant in unison as the song starts, and you giggle.

You find yourselves singing along loudly. It appears he knows all the words as much as you do.

“I'm a professional cynic, but my heart's not in it,” you say loudly as he points for you to take that line.

“I'm paying the price of living life at the limit,” he picks up as you mirror the gesture.

Your fleeting thought is that the lyrics are the right choice for your different personalities somehow. Or what you know of him so far.

“He lives in a house, a very big house in the country!!!” you both almost yell, laughing heartily around the words.

And that's how the next twenty minutes are spent. Singing along slightly tunelessly to Blur as you cross the border into England, and the journey continues.

—

You stop at motorway services outside Manchester around tea time, having listened to most of your Blur back catalogue and lots of Pulp too. You frown as he tucks into a Big Mac and fries as you pick at a soup and roll.

As you eat, you quarrel about the best American 90s sitcom - Friends or Frasier - you claim the latter until he plumbs for Seinfeld instead at the last minute. You throw down your spoon in annoyance that he changed the rules of his own game, splashing your jumper, which makes you even more pissed off. You make him get up and recycle your empty soup bowl for you, pettily refusing to get out of your chair. He counters that you look adorable when you have a tantrum, and you snatch the keys, threatening to drive off without him. To the people around you, you look, to all intents and purposes, like a bickering married couple, not someone you only met a few hours prior.

When you hit the road, you take over driving duty again. You plan to drive the rest of the way to London; it should only be another three and a half hours.

After his junk food dinner, he passes out in the passenger seat for over two hours. You don’t mind the silence; it’s a novel respite from your squabbling. And if you steal a few glances at his very attractive face as it lolls around, well, you’re not going to admit that to anyone. (What you don’t see is his eyes opening periodically and staring at you, too, between drifts of sleep.)

It’s almost certain you have never met anyone in your 22 years on this earth that you spar with more than him. But it’s not bitter; it’s just like you are so opposite you can't help but be drawn to each other’s orbits, even if all you do is rile each other up. You’ve never met anyone quite so contrarian as him. Or anyone quite as troubling to your hormones. You want to smack his face AND pull him in for a deep kiss, jump on his lap and grind hard. It’s quite the most disconcerting thing.

__

It’s just after 10 pm when he offers to take over driving duty again on the outskirts of London, as he knows it quite well. His family have a pied-a-terre in Mayfair. Yup, posh twat. However, you’re grateful for the offer, this being your first time in the city except for brief day trips as a child. And as the suburbs give way to the glow of the inner city, you are talking, well, arguing, about movies. Specifically, Titanic that he claims Gen made him sit through last week.

“You're wrong”, you argue, shaking your head.

“There was room on that door for both of them,” he defends.

“It would have sunk if he climbed on too. He did the right, noble thing, sacrificing himself like that,” you assert.

“Please, they could have laid on top of one another and kept it mostly afloat. It’s not like it would be a huge deal; they already had sex, for fuck’s sake,” he counters, waving his hand.

“Yeah, but so what? Sex is great, but it’s not a reason to risk both of you dying by SINKING THE DAMN DOOR,” you huff.

“Oh, I see,” he gloats.

“What? What do you see?” you shoot back, riled up. This man’s ability to get under your skin is almost frightening.

“Obviously, you haven’t had great sex yet,” he shrugs, staring ahead as he drives.

“Yes, I bloody have!”

“No, you haven’t,” the dismissive tone is so irritating.

“So have!”

He chuckles. “Okay then. Who? Who have you had great sex with?”

You flick through your collage of university experiences. A mixed bag, if you were honest. Then a triumphant smirk covers your face.

“Melissa.”

The smirk grows wider as he swerves the car a little, almost taking out a delivery cyclist, and snaps his head over at you. You can practically see his brain buffering. He was expecting a dull boy’s name so that he could argue back.

“Tell me more,” his voice has dropped an octave and goosebumps erupt on your upper arms at the sound.

“She knew her way around between a woman’s legs,” you shrug, meeting his eyes and feeling temporarily unmoored by how dilated they suddenly are, rubbing your bicep instinctually to tamp the evidence of the effect he has had on you, hidden beneath your jumper though it is.

“Tongue and fingers?” His question is soft.

“Whole face and hands,” you counter, not missing how his tongue shoots out to lick, then bite his parched lip and his subtle shift in his seat.

The idea of him physically turned on by the mental picture he is building for himself should make you affronted. Instead, your hand itches to shock him, reach out and grab him, order him to keep driving as you palm him over his jeans. You are horrified by where your thoughts turn. This is your friend's boyfriend. You can’t stand him… can you?

“Lucky lady,” he mutters.

“Yeah, I was,” you tilt your head to one side in reminiscence.

“I was talking about Melissa,” he replies, and you don’t know how to respond to that. So you don’t. You just reach for your bag of Maltesers you bought at the last petrol station and snag one.

“How’s far til yours?” You ask, changing the subject.

“Hmm, interesting,” he says thoughtfully but doesn’t elucidate. “Not long now, we’re passing Swiss Cottage,” he responds as if that’s supposed to mean something to you.

Suddenly a hand is hovering right before you, almost brushing your breast.

“What?” You frown, pretending not to jump.

“Malteser,” he requests, raising an eyebrow and glancing over.

“You should have bought some for yourself at the last stop if you wanted some,” you volley back, smirking and popping another into your mouth obnoxiously.

“You aren’t very likeable sometimes, you know,” he pouts, withdrawing his hand when he realises you mean it.

“I am to people I like,” you counter.

“Guess we are not going to be friends then,” he says sarcastically.

“Guess not,” you chime back. “It's a shame; you were the only person I knew in London...”

And as he pulls up outside some fancy building in Mayfair, you shake hands somewhat stiffly after helping him unload his bags. You part ways without exchanging information. Such a strangely abrupt ending to your twelve-hour trip where it seems you ran the gamut of human emotion together. You try not to be too bothered by it as you follow your sat nav towards the less salubrious environs of Leytonstone, where you have rented a studio flat—deciding to put Ben Bridgerton as far out of your mind as possible. You doubt you’ll ever see his face again. After all, what are the chances in this big city?

Chapter 2: Pour myself a cup of ambition

Summary:

Set 5 years after Chapter 1. As your job takes you abroad for the very first time, you bump into the last person you expect on another shared journey full of revelations.

Notes:

Originally posted on tumblr

7 years ago

You stand just before the security gates at St Pancras International, engaging in a rare PDA moment. But you justify to yourself that this is the first time you have had to go away on business since you started your new relationship three months ago, and this one seems like great potential. Dr Tom Dorset. Friendly, sweet, handsome and, so far at least, well-adjusted and emotionally mature. Your friends agree he’s quite the catch. And he is pretty fantastic in all sorts of other ways too. You certainly have no complaints in the bedroom.

Just as he whispers how much he will miss you and kisses that spot on your neck that makes you a little weak, your moment is interrupted.

“Tom? Tom Dorset? Is that you?”

There in front of you is the man you thought you would never see again. Looking a few years older and dressed better, but there’s no doubt who it is. You’d never forget those eyes.

“Ben? Ben Bridgerton?!” Tom seems delighted, and it occurs to you that they must be old friends as Tom takes his arms from around you and shakes his hand warmly. Just fucking great.

“I thought it was you! I haven’t seen you for years! Was the last time when I came to Ant’s at Trinity?! What have you been up to?”

“Medical school mostly,” Tom offers demurely, then turns to you. “Oh, sorry, Ben, this is y/n y/l/n, y/n this is Ben Bridgerton; I was his brother’s roommate at Trinity College, Oxford.”

Ben’s eyes cut to you, and you see a confused look pass over his face; like you are familiar, but he can’t place why.

“Well, I must get this train, but it was great to see you! Email me!” Ben smiles warmly, and with one last brow knit in your direction, he takes off.

“Thank fuck he didn’t remember me,” you exhale loudly when he is out of earshot.

“Ben?” Tom looks confused.

“Yes, We drove from St Andrews to London together five years ago, and it was the worst road trip I think I’ve ever had,” you bemoan. “He was dating a friend of mine, and I agreed to split the drive. Urgh, it was terrible. He’s so obnoxious.”

Tom looks over your shoulder. “Well, looks like he just got on your train, honey, so umm, good luck with that,” he chuckles, bemused as you roll your eyes.

“Just fucking great,” you sigh sarcastically and plant your head on Tom’s shoulder as he draws you into his safe, warm embrace again.

“I love you; I will miss you,” he says softly, cupping your jaw lovingly as he gently kisses your lips.

It’s only the second time he has said it, and your heart flutters as you break into a huge smile. “I love you too. I will be back before you know it,” you promise, pulling him in for a passionate kiss you hope he will remember.

As you part, he exhales raggedly. “God, now I’ll miss you even more.”

“Mmm, that’s the point,” you whisper coquettishly and run a hand down his back, inside his coat, unseen by people around you. “Text me, sexy stuff,” you request quietly, then gently bite his bottom lip.

He groans, “Good god, woman, get on that train before I drag you somewhere or buy a ticket to join you.”

___

You are still giggling and feeling so fizzy and light, like champagne is in your blood, as you skip onboard the train to Paris. Taking your seat in First Class that you’ve been assigned by work feels like such a luxury; excited to cover your first story abroad.

Your phone pings just as the train slips out of the station. Love you. Safe travels. Txx

You can’t help your little titter of happiness, and just as you go to type a reply, someone leans over from the seat diagonally behind you, across the aisle.

“I swear I recognise that giggle. The University of St Andrews?”

It’s Ben. Of course, it is. Thanks for that fate.

“Yes,” you sigh, not turning around, annoyed he doesn’t remember more detail. How could he possibly forget calling you beautiful? Your traitorous brain yells in your skull.

“Did we date?” he questions.

You can’t help but almost snort at that. “Hell no!” You twist around. “You were dating my friend Gen. We drove to London together after term ended.”

“Oh, I remember now!” he smiles, “you wouldn’t give me a Malteser.”

“You propositioned me!” you blurt out as you watch him pull an apple out of his bag.

“No, I didn’t,” he laughs, “I just said you were beautiful,” and he takes a bite out of the fruit. “You still are, if it’s any consolation,” he offers, around a mouthful.

“None whatsoever,” you fib, feeling your cheeks heat at the compliment. “And you still talk while you eat, like an animal,” you roll your eyes, barely believing how riled up you are from exchanging less than five sentences.

“Would you two like to sit together?” the man opposite you at the table offers.

“No, that’s really not….” you begin.

“Yes, thanks!” Ben interrupts, and you scowl at him as he stands immediately, throwing his bag down next to you before swinging over as the man moves aside.

“So you were going to be a journalist?” he winks after he settles into the seat opposite you.

Up close now, he is still just as handsome as he was. Maybe more so, jaw more defined and smattered with stubble. The utter arsehole.

“I am a journalist. My internship at the Guardian turned into a job. I’m going to Paris to cover the climate summit,” you state proudly, squaring your shoulders a little. “You?”

“Visiting my fiancee,” he grins, and something twinges in your gut. Maybe getting tacos for lunch wasn’t a good idea.

“You are getting married? You?” you laugh in total disbelief.

And you are suddenly back in your old studio flat, hearing more about his player reputation. A few months after the drive to London, Gen came to crash on your sofa and commiserate her reentry to single life. She didn’t seem that upset about the dalliance ending, to be fair, mostly about how much she’d miss the ‘fucking mind-blowing fucking’ as she had so indelicately put it. You can see the words floating like a speech bubble above her face in your mind “Y/n, I can live without the dick attitude, but damn, I don’t know that I wanna live without that dick, you know?” Then threw herself face-first into a cushion. You cut off her margaritas at that point. How much that had to do with not wanting to think about him and his member, you decided not to dwell on.

“Yes,” he cuts into your reverie. “Her name is Tessa. She’s an artist too. She’s Parisian.”

“Tres chic.”

“How long have you been with Dorset? Wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess,” he smirks.

You fold your arms and raise an eyebrow. “This ought to be good,” you mutter as much to yourself as to him.

“Hmm, three months?”

Dammit. How did the bastard get it spot on?

“Why?” you try to bluff, but the victorious crooked grin that unfurls over his face shows he knows he’s right without you having to say it.

“Goodbye before a trip. Classic three-month behaviour,” he opines, taking another huge bite of his apple.

“Glad to see your eating habits have at least got healthier,” you state dryly, trying to change tack.

“Tessa likes to eat healthily,” he explains with an almost dreamy expression. Part of you is already impressed by this woman you have never met who has turned the human rubbish bin into a more impressive version of a man. “Has he told you he loves you?” he queries, spittling just a speck of apple onto the table.

“Why is that ANY of your business?” you frown.

“Because if he hasn’t, he’s a fool,” he shrugs casually as if those words aren’t some of the sweetest you’ve heard.

“Luckily, he’s no fool,” you respond, confirming without actually confirming.

He nods. “Good. Dorset is a good one. Don’t ‘y/n’ him away,” he jests, using air quotes.

“What the fuck does that mean?” you spit, suddenly whiplash angry when just a few moments ago you were impressed with his sweetest.

“You can’t smoke in my car. Eating that will kill you,” he adopts a high-pitched voice and waggles his head as he mocks you.

“Fuck you,” you grumble.

“I would have, happily, but you said no,” he winks, and you want to punch him.

“I thought you just denied propositioning me!”

He just shrugs and laughs loudly. You can tell everyone around you is most amused by your back and forth, so instead, you shoot him a glare and then change tack, staring out of the window as the countryside of Kent zips by. So irritated you forget to text Tom back for another five minutes.

___

“Do you know anyone in Paris?” he asks, pulling out an AirPod as you close your laptop sometime later.

The train is somewhere under the Channel, and the darkness of the tunnel outside the window makes the train feel a touch more intimate, claustrophobic even.

“No,” you admit.

“How about Tessa and I take you out for dinner?” he proposes.

“Isn’t tonight your first night together in a while?” you frown.

“Yeah… and?” he seems to be either not catching your train of thought or being intentionally obtuse, goading you into a trap to state the obvious.

“I would have thought you’d be otherwise occupied,” you arch an eyebrow pointedly.

“Oh…” he suddenly catches your drift and, rather adorably, a spot of pink dust his lovely cheekbones. OK, maybe not the latter.

“Certainly not wanting a third wheel, like me hanging around,” you point out meekly with a knowing smile.

“If that is your way of offering a threesome, I’m down,” he flirts, his voice suddenly velvet smooth, so much so the hairs on the back of your neck prickle up.

“God’s sake,” you mutter, feigning more indignation than you actually have.

“You’re the one who told me about your lesbian experiences at uni!” he argues defensively.

“I was just trying to prove a point!”

“Got to be honest, don’t remember a damn thing except the visual that almost had me drive into a bus shelter,” he admits with a chuckle.

“And take out that delivery cyclist,” you remind, joining in.

There is a moment where your eyes meet in a joint nostalgia of amusement, and something feels softer between you.

“Listen, Tess’s brother is a chef at a great little bistro; we will almost certainly end up there anyway, as we usually always do. I’m sure she would be delighted for you to join us,” the sincerity of his offer touches you.

“Thanks, but I have to do some research ahead of tomorrow. I’ll probably just order room service and crash out,” you admit, knowing that is a lame response.

“Fair enough. Well, let’s at least exchange numbers this time. Stay in touch? If you are at a loose end at any point, let me know, and we’ll happily give you a tour or just grab a drink?”

“Okay”, you capitulate and hand over your phone for him to punch in his number.

“Wonderful” he smiles genuinely, and his hazy eyes dance. “Are we finally becoming friends?” he teases gently as he seems to fiddle a little longer than needed to put in a few digits.

“I guess so,” you respond with a laugh.

He hands back your phone, and weirdly it’s screen locked.

“Good, And as my very first act as your friend, may I make a comment you are not allowed to take offence to?” he questions, with an odd tone.

Your dander is suddenly way up. “Whatttt?” you elongate the word rife with suspicion.

He leans over the train table suddenly, and you startle as his lips are warm against the shell of your ear, your heart-rate spiking. “You have a fucking fantastic pair of tits,” he murmurs.

You splutter, shame, outrage and desire flooding your system in almost equal measure. Incapable of forming words, you sharply pull back into your seat and shoot him your most sour glare.

“Maybe don’t hand your phone over when it’s open to the message thread with your boyfriend,” he chuckles.

You feel mortified, recalling the photo you’d texted Tom last night as a going-away present, and you are almost blinded as the train suddenly swoops out of the tunnel and sunlight floods into the compartment.

In fact, you are grateful that he gets a call just at that moment. It seems to last ages, and he wanders away, probably to find the buffet car, knowing him. By the time you see him making his way back through the carriage, the train is pulling into Gare Du Nord. You are on your feet and walking to the next carriage to alight. Not certain you can live down your embarrassment.

There are a few moments as you wander around Paris over the next two days when your fingers itch to dial his number… but you never do, something always stopping you. Bizarrely, you think it might be the idea of meeting his fiancee, and you have no idea what that means, so avoidance seems like the best tactic.

After all, he’s probably moving to Paris soon, so really, what’s the point?

Chapter 3: Around London Town (Sun Is In The Sky)

Summary:

Set 5 years after Chapter 2, serious relationships are ending. You reunite with Benedict and bond over heartbreak.

Notes:

Originally posted on tumblr

2 years ago

“I saw the email,” she sighs, poking her salad. “He just spent 2000 quid on a new king-sized bed.”

“What do you mean you saw the email?” you frown, taking a bite of your fish as you stare across to St Paul’s dome, looking so beautiful lit up at dusk this late spring evening. Oxo Tower is a regular haunt for you, as it’s right around the corner from Kate’s work.

“I mean… he was working on his laptop in bed next to me and got called away, and a delivery notification from John Lewis popped up, and well, I saw it. He's bought a new bed for them,” her jaw ticks as she swallows hard. “He’s never going to leave her, is he?”

“No, Kate, he's never going to leave her,” you echo for what feels like the millionth time.

Your sympathy has limits; this woman, your very best friend, is so smart and so blindingly beautiful; you really don't understand why she has spent the last few years allowing herself to be dicked around by this what sounds like colossal asshat of a married man. She claims he's fantastic in bed and treats her like a queen, but as you've never even met him in the three years she's been seeing him, you can't form an opinion beyond the rose-tinted snippets she shares.

“I know you're right, I know,” she shakes her head a little and reaches for her G&T, downing it with remarkable alacrity. “How's Doctor Tom?” she wiggles her eyebrows comedically, obviously wanting a change of direction.

“Fine,” you offer warily, “at least, I hear he's fine.” You take a deep breath “… we broke up,” you explain as her brow knits.

“What? When? Why didn't you tell me?” she cries.

“I am telling you now. Last week. It just wasn't something I wanted to discuss on WhatsApp yknow,” you shrug, reaching for your wine and taking a fortifying large gulp. You knew you would have to tell your best friend sometime, apparently that ‘sometime’ is today.

“What happened?”

“We’ve been growing apart for a while, to be honest,” you confess, feeling like a burden is lifted just from voicing it. “It was all very grown up. We had a heart-to-heart; I said what I wanted, he said what he wanted, and we agreed it was very different, so he left.”

“My god, you make it sound so simple! And almost businesslike, mechanical. Fucking hell, are you not broken up about it at all?” she raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows, this time in surprise.

“I've had a few days, and you know, I'm alright about it. I'm over it, to be honest. It's better we did this now than after we had gone through with the marriage,” you point out, starting at your now bare ring finger with a short pang of loss. It really was a beautiful ring.

“Well, good point, divorces are expensive and a bloody nightmare, but still…. Five years y/n. That's a long time to be with someone, and you are so matter-of-fact about it!”

“Not all of us are drama queens, Kate,” you jest gently and chuckle as she pulls a face.

“So you want me to set you up? There's that guy at my work, remember?” she singsongs, her brown eyes shining with mischief. “You guys would be perfect; I just know it!”

“Urghh, who?” you will admit to some intrigue.

“Freidrich Hohenzollern, you don't mind the blonds,” she winks.

“Kate! German Freddy?! You set me up with him six years ago!” you roll your eyes. “He threw up your deathly strong margaritas all over my pretty summer shoes,” you bemoan, recalling how it capped off a truly awful barbecue in her back garden. As it turns out, it was only a few weeks before you met Dr Tom. “Besides, I'm not ready to meet anyone yet; it's only been a few bloody days.”

“I thought you said you were over it?” she teases.

“I am, but I’m in mourning about being single again. I don't need anything right now, except maybe a rebound fuck, and I don't want that to be anyone remotely close to our friendship pool, you know? Much better to get with some rando I never have to cross paths with again.”

“Fair enough,” she shrugs but then waves her fork at you. “Just don't leave it too long before you get serious again.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” you laugh.

“I mean, if you stay on the shelf too long, some other bitch is going to snap up your man, and you’ll have to get cats and live alone, a bitter spinster until you die one of those mystery early deaths from unused vagina in about ten years. You’ll even make the news; cos, y’know, the cats, they’ll eat your face after you die. All alone.”

“Thanks, Kate.” you deadpan at that fantastically supportive vision of your future. “Also, so glad to know you are visiting me in my ancient forties, like the wonderful friend you are,” you roll your eyes.

“Bitch please, imma be busy being impregnated for the fifth time by my beautiful husband, James Norton,” she breezes with a huge grin.

“You’ll have to leave the fucking married idiot who doesn't deserve you first,” you point out, perhaps a little uncharitably.

“Touche,” she fires over her water glass. “He’s never going to leave her, is he?” she adds wistfully.

You reach over the table and touch her hand gently. “No darling, he is never going to leave his wife.”

“I know, I know, FUCK, I know…” she sighs dramatically, “Well… this calls for MORE DRINKS!” she states decidedly, banging her beautifully manicured fist on the table.

That, at least, you can fully support.

—

“What happened?” Anthony Bridgerton asks, taking a sip of his beer, his eye on his beloved team on the pitch below as they take a slight hammering at home in Twickenham.

“It's over. I'm moving home,” Benedict sighs, scratching his beard and glancing around the grandstand. “You've still got that spare room, right? Just until I get everything sorted, my stuff shipped back,” he adds, not wanting to be a burden at this age.

“Yeah, it's yours, as long as you need it,” Anthony nods, the older brother instinct kicking in without thought. “Are you sure this isn't something you can work out? Moving back to London seems rash.”

“Not a chance,” Benedict responds morosely, staring at his beer as a fly lands in it and starts swimming—seems like an apt metaphor for the shitshow being thirty-five has become for him. “I offered everything,” he shrugs miserably, “to go for counselling, sleep in the spare room; she's not interested. I knew something was up when some of her shit started disappearing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d come home, and her wardrobe looked half empty, you know, more than just laundry piling up, whole sections missing. Then her art and supplies started to dwindle, and she wasn't replacing them, but she was coming home still covered in paint. I figured maybe she had rented a separate studio space. So I confronted her; asked her what was happening: ‘Que se passe-t-il ici, tessa?’ you know. And she was all ‘de rein’ and ‘c’est tous dans ta tête’ it’s all in my head,” he translates, “and the whole time, I knew I wasn't being paranoid. So one day, I followed her...”

“You did what?”

“Yes, I know, I’m not proud of it,” he admits, “but I went to the coffee shop across the road and followed her. She had a big suitcase, lugging more of her stuff, I guess. So she went straight to a flat in the tenth arrondissement. Her ‘friend’ Clarissa. Yeah, they are definitely not just friends.”

“How do you know?” Anthony checks, sucking in air between his teeth as a Harlequins player hits the grass hard after a vicious tackle

“I watched them fuck on the balcony,” Benedict monotones, “sat in a little cafe opposite and watched my wife screaming her fucking head off as her ‘friend’ went down on her.”

“Ouch.”

“Exactly. She hasn't let me do that in months; claims she’s lost the enjoyment of it. That isn't fucking true, obviously.” He fishes out the fly and downs the rest of his watery beer, placing the plastic cup on the ground and letting his head fall into his hands. “I mean, we haven't had sex in a year, but I thought it's just a rough patch, you know? We could get through it. Until a couple of months ago, she was at least letting me eat her out, and on occasion, when she got drunk, come to think of it, she might even give me a handjob once in a while. So I was dealing with it, thinking it's a blip, we can get through it. But… uggghhhh…. I knew it, you know? This whole time I knew she would kick the shit out of me one day. I just didn't think it would be this far into marriage. Five fucking years Anthony….”

He looks so utterly unmoored that Anthony turns to him and places a comforting arm around his brother. “Listen, infidelity isn't the reason marriages break up; it's just a symptom that something else is wrong.”

“Yeah, well, that symptom is eating my wife’s pussy,” Benedict grouses loudly, uncaring that a whole bunch of people in the vicinity twist around in their stadium seats and stare at him.

Just fucking great.

—

“Ooh, what about this one?” Kate bounds over, holding some utterly dreadful-looking period romance novel.

“Regency? Sex? Kate, please, I’m not that desperate yet,” you say witheringly, staring over your reading glasses at her.

“You’re newly single. This shit might teach you a few things,” she hums unapologetically, waggling the book at you.

“Please, as if I need some American woman telling me how to fuck a handsome Englishman from 200 years ago,” you roll your eyes and take the book from her.

“Speaking of handsome,” Kate sidles up closer, “someone is staring at you in foreign languages.”

You peel off your glasses and look over to see a face you would never forget lurking by a bookshelf. And it’s a jolt to your being. He’s got to be in his mid-thirties by now and sports a somewhat scraggly but short beard. Damn, he’s still so handsome, your mind screams.

“I know him. You’d like him; he’s married,” you needle sarcastically.

“I don’t see a ring,” Kate counters quietly, “when was the last time you saw him?”

“God, maybe five years ago? And he was moving to Paris. To get married,” you explain as you politely raise a hand to wave and nod.

“So that’s a long time ago,” she stage whispers, “maybe he’s not anymore,” she hints.

“Please, he’s so obnoxious,” you dismiss, even as your heart thumps a little harder as he approaches. “Plus, he never remembers me….”

“Y/n y/l/n,” he says warmly as he pulls up nearby.

Wow, okay, wrong on that count.

“Ben! Ben Bridgerton. Hi!” you breeze, feigning nonchalance and quickly dropping the crappy romance book Kate gave you.

“This is…” you turn around, and Kate is gone, waving next to the Hatchards sign and heading out the door. “Well, that was my friend Kate…. How are you? How’s married life?”

“Ahh, not good,” he winces, and you feel awkward as his face goes crestfallen. “I’m getting divorced.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I really am,” you frown, the sting of your breakup lessened somehow.

“How’s Doctor Dorset?” he perks up.

“Oh, I hear he’s fine. We uhh just broke up. Last month,” you nod, and you exchange glances that are so meaningful.

He looks so much wiser, mellow. And it’s not just the beard. Like the cocksureness and swagger have been knocked out of him. He’s learned some hard lessons about life, living but hurting. Something in your heart reaches out to him.

“Coffee and a catch-up?” you offer casually.

“Actually, I’m starving,” he admits, “how about lunch instead?”

You glance at your phone, and there’s a trademark subtle WhatsApp message from Kate.

Ride that fine thing to Rebound City.
I expect all the deets tmrw.
Woof.

“Urghh, sure, looks like I’m free,” you answer, quickly swiping left to clear the screen.

——

You are sitting on the sunny rooftop terrace at Ham Yard sharing break-up stories. Although it’s selfish to admit it, somehow, his melancholy makes you feel better about yourself. That you are more together than you thought. And even more certain you made the right choice not to get married.

“We used to say how life was great because we didn’t have kids,” you explain, pushing your salad around the plate. “How everyone we knew stopped having sex if they had kids. How we could fuck against the window or on the kitchen table, and no one would walk in on us. And I believed him when he said he didn’t want kids. But then…” you trail off.

“He changed his mind?” Ben intuits; his emotional intelligence momentarily takes you aback.

“He went to stay with his sister for a week to celebrate some family thing; I had to cover an event, so I couldn’t go. Anyway, she has three kids. And he came back different; kept saying maybe kids aren’t so bad. Even after his brother-in-law admitted they no longer had sex cos childcare was so exhausting, mind,” you gesture with your hands. “And he just started to drop hints about how we aren’t getting any younger - I'm only thirty-fucking-one - and how kids ensure a legacy….” you stab a piece of cucumber. “That’s when I snapped, and I just said. Listen, I don’t want kids, and if you do, maybe we need to rethink this engagement, cos I’m not going to change my mind. And he looks at me horrified. As if it doesn’t compute that a woman would never want children. ‘I thought that was just a thing to establish your career, then you’d take a break and have kids. My income more than provides’,”

Benedict huffs a gentle laugh at your deliberately lousy impression.

“And I said back, ‘I love my job, I don’t want to give it up and certainly not to have kids’. And he replied, ‘Well, I want a wife who will give me kids’. And I said, ‘Well, that’s not me’. And then he left.”

Your harsh but accurate summary of that shitty afternoon somehow feels lighter now you’ve shared details. You don’t want to dwell on how odd it is that you’ve given him, a man you’ve seen twice in ten years, more than you shared with your best friend.

“And the thing is, we never did fuck spontaneously like that anyway,” you sigh, sipping your coffee.

“Not on the kitchen table?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Not once. Not even against the window. He doesn’t like doing it standing up,” you shrug.

“That’s a shame. It’s fun,” Benedict opines, but it’s not like in the past when he would’ve used it as a blatant flirtation; it’s more like he’s simply agreeing with an empiric truth.

“Agreed,” you nod and fall silent as you can tell he’s gearing up to talk more.

“I knew Tessa was bisexual when we got together,” he sighs, elaborating on his breakup story. “To be honest, I think that’s what made her so damn sexy at first, the stupid caveman idea she’d be into threesomes,” he rolls his eyes and shakes his head slightly at the naivety of his younger self. “I just didn’t think she would do the almost cliched thing and cheat on me with a woman.”

“Doesn’t it hurt less? That it’s not another dick that led her astray?” you frown.

He huffs a laugh. “Never thought of it like that. But it’s more the helplessness of it. That’s the one thing I can’t be, a woman. And that’s what she wants.” he twists his mouth into a thoughtful pout before continuing. “She moved in with her. But she didn’t tell me. Didn’t have the guts. She just kept moving her stuff out slowly. I’d prefer she was honest and told me, but she played mind games. Tried to gaslight me into thinking it was all in my head.”

You drop your fork and decide to inject some humour, knowing the sign that he’s getting too maudlin. “Hold the bloody phone. Did Benedict Bridgerton just use the word gaslight?” you tease. “Bloody hell, we have gotten old.”

He looks up and meets your eye, an appreciative glint in the down-sloped corners as he chuckles in agreement. The look lingers for a beat longer than it should, and all you can think is the slight crinkles around his eyes lend him a more mature beauty, somehow more deadly than the pretty, fresh-faced idiot you shared a car ride with ten years ago. Benedict Bridgerton with heartbreak is a beautiful sight, perverse as it may be to think it.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” you offer conciliatory, reaching out to touch the back of his hand. His skin is soft; you can feel his pulse in the prominent vein under your fingertip, and something in you runs warm.

“You know, the first time we met, I really didn't like you,” he confesses as you withdraw your touch, “you were so uptight about the world; you’re much mellower now.”

“Way to wrap a compliment in an insult,” you pull a face, and he laughs. “You were just utterly nonplussed that someone might not want to fuck you—-that's why you didn't like me,” you add, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

“What's the apology deadline for being a young idiot?” he winces and shoots you an adorably contrite expression.

“Hmmm, ten years,” you volley back, unable to stop your grin.

“Oooh, well, it's mid-May, and that was late May, so I am juuuuust in time,” he jests, and you feel a warmth inside your ribs as you smile at each other.

 

After eating, you find yourselves wandering together, crossing under the mature trees of Golden Square.

“Are we becoming friends? For real this time?” An ironic smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I mean, I forgive you for not ever texting me after I gave you my number all those years ago,” he teases, and you blush.

“We might be,” your tone playful.

“Huh, a woman friend,” his brow knitting, “that’s novel.”

You laugh, and again your eyes meet.

“You know you may be the first attractive single woman I don’t want to fuck…” he confesses.

Something in you feels conflicted. Pleased he has matured enough to be that way, flattered he feels willing to admit it to you as a friend, and the part you don’t want to think about too much, the tinge of sadness that fact gives you.

“That’s wonderful, Ben,” you reply as he loops your arm and keeps strolling.

Chapter 4: You've Got A Friend

Summary:

Set a couple of months after Chapter 3, Benedict and you are becoming best friends.

Notes:

Originally posted on tumblr.

3 months later

Benedict Bridgerton is one of your best friends.

If you had uttered that sentence to yourself ten, even five, years ago, you would have laughed your head off. But it's funny how life turns out. In the months after you reconnect, you start to meet up regularly, at least once a week, sometimes more, and you text almost constantly. Becoming each other’s crutch as you rebuild your lives as single people.

On the surface, you couldn’t be more opposites, but he’s matured, and you find his company the most soothing and the most fun. Be it while having dim sum in Chinatown, wandering Victoria Park or helping him set up his new warehouse flat. There's always a tiny frisson, an undercurrent of something between you that, to be honest, makes it more appealing. A pilot light of heat that could, maybe one day, become a bonfire if the timing were right. You are not sure it ever would be, but it would be stupid to deny to yourself that it's there. There is certainly no one you like to verbally spar with more.

He FaceTimes you as you lay in bed on a regular Tuesday in September; it's become a habit. Just jabbering away until one of you falls asleep. Talking about everything, anything, and something nothing, watching a show or film together in digital silence. A comforting presence.

“What are you watching?” he hums, scratching his beard.

“Don't judge me,” is your instant response, and he chuckles.

“Tell me,” his voice drops an octave in a way you are sure he knows has an effect on you. Physically. A little shiver down your spine. Bastard.

“Titanic,” you mutter as he bursts out laughing.

“You hate that film!” he exclaims, and you wish you could throw a pillow through the screen.

“That doesn’t sound like not judging!” you bemoan but concede he is right.

“Channel?” he asks, still giggling.

“Four… wait, are you going to watch too?”

“Of course, then we can argue about it in real-time,” something in that offer makes you feel comforted. “It's near the end!” he decries after briefly pausing to change channels.

“How would you know?” you lobby, and he fixes you with a pointed stare.

“Please. This was Gen’s favourite; I had to sit through it five bloody times.”

“How is she?”

“No idea. She didn't speak to me after the breakup. Besides, wasn't she your friend?!”

“Yeah, but we lost touch,” you sigh, “sometime about seven or eight years ago, she moved to Bristol, and then we sort of drifted.”

He hums noncommittally, watching the movie, “So you’re saying Rose should not have saved him by sharing that door,” he states as the final scenes unfold onscreen before you both.

“I never said that!” you argue.

“Yes, you did! In the car on the way from uni!” he smirks.

“No, I didn’t!” you volley back indignantly.

“Fine, okay, you didn’t.” He rolls his eyes.

“I mean, that dick was so good, they fucked one time, and she returned to the ocean to say goodbye to it 70 years later,” you point out drolly.

He tosses his head back and laughs so hard you can’t help but join in.

“Fuck that’s the funniest take on this film I’ve ever heard,” he wheezes.

“Right?! I can’t take credit; it's a comedy routine; I’ll send you a Spotify link,” you offer.

“Look forward to it,” he giggles.

The urge to ask him if he’s ever had sex so good he’d go to the spot it happened to commemorate it is on the tip of your tongue. You’re almost surprised he doesn’t use the opportunity himself. He’s definitely grown up.

“Are you sleeping okay?” he asks, rubbing his eye wearily.

“Doing better,” you admit, “not completely there, but better than I was.”

“Do you still sleep on ‘your’ side of the bed?” he inquires with air quotes.

“No. I’ve taken to sleeping wherever now,” you answer truthfully.

“Wow, you’re doing so well,” he sighs. “I feel weird if even a leg wanders over to ‘her’ side… and this isn’t even a bed we shared.”

“Yours was a marriage, mine merely a long-term relationship,” you try to justify why he might still be more impacted than you.

“Same difference, except you don’t have a lawyer bleeding you dry arguing about shit…. Urghh, I need a drink.”

“No, you don’t,” you argue, “stay in bed and drink your water.”

“You can be very bossy sometimes, you know?” he opines but reaches for his glass of water on his bedside table as he says it, doing exactly what you suggest.

“It’s for your own good,” you point out.

“I know, I know. I suppose I should thank you. You’d be surprised how little men give a shit about their friends' well-being, even their best friends.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” you fire back. “You’re all clueless idiots with the EQ of a shrimp.”

“Wowwww, okay,” he mimes being shot in the chest, “please don’t take out your Dr. Tom issues on the rest of us unsuspecting shrimps.” It’s in jest, but you can hear the underlying argument and know he’s right.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. You don’t have the EQ of a shrimp. I’ll give you, hmmm, a crawfish,” you offer with a giggle.

“Oh great, thanks,” he deadpans, “Could you not at least give me lobster?”

“Okay, fine. I hear lobsters are very smart, so you flatter yourself there, but yes, okay, lobster Ben. Please go get some sleep.”

“Alright,” he yawns, “can I call you my lobster too?”

“Why?” you frown sleepily, bemused.

“Some lobster thought it could predict the World Cup winning team—always thought it was right. That’s very you,” he stares pointedly down the phone camera at you.

“Fine, I’m your lobster too,” you stick out your tongue a little.

He chuckles as you settle deeper into your pillow, flicking off the TV as the credits scroll. Even you can acknowledge having a person to talk to is so comforting right before sleep.

“Goodnight, lobster Ben,” you yawn, your eyes drooping.

“Goodnight, my little blue lobster,” he murmurs.

“Why blue? Cos I’m sad?” you hum, eyes closed.

“No,” he chuckles gently, “I have my reasons,” he says quietly, and you pass out as the call drops off.

——

“So I had that dream again,” you mention offhand as you wander down the Southbank from Waterloo a few weeks later. It’s a crisp October day; you’ve taken the afternoon off work to visit the Tate Modern—there’s some exhibit he wants to see.

“The sex dream?” he verifies, weaving around an old lady who shoots him a disapproving look.

“Yup,” you confirm, kicking through the colourful pile of leaves under one of the trees. “So we are going at it up on this roof terrace, and this time he flies away just before I orgasm. I mean, what the fuck is that!?”

“Let me get this straight: you’re having sex with some mythical half-man half-dragon creature?” he seems completely bamboozled by the idea. “And just before you can come, he flies off?”

“Yeah. What do you think it means?” you ponder.

“I think it means you need to get laid,” he laughs.

“Great fucking insight Sherlock Holmes,” body-checking him with your shoulder. “What about you? What’s your latest sex dream?”

“It’s always the same one. There’s this woman. She walks in, just wordlessly strips off my jeans and climbs onboard,” his cheeks have a high dot of pink that looks adorable, almost as if he’s embarrassed to say it.

“What does she look like? Are we talking Halle Berry? Helen Mirren? Florence Pugh?”

“I dunno… she’s just sort of faceless,” he gestures vaguely.

“Hmmm. Unusual. So then what happens?”

“I always wake up,” he sighs, staring into the middle distance, over to the Millennium Bridge.

“Wait….,” you stop walking and grab his arm, “...a faceless woman strips off your jeans and sits on you, and that’s the only sex dream you’ve had… ever?!” You can scarcely believe it.

“Yeah, it’s ridiculous, I know. I’d like to state for the record that I’ve had a much more varied actual sex life. And daydreams? Top fucking notch. But my unconscious, sleeping dreams? Very not sexy or just this one recurring one.”

“Does it ever change? At all?”

“I mean, sometimes I’m wearing trousers, not jeans?” he offers, looking nonplussed as to what else to add.

You cannot think of anything to say to that, so you just shoot him an exasperated look and walk away towards the entrance. How on earth can he get to sleep at night if that’s all he’s got to look forward to?

 

“Dinner after this?” he offers as you stare up at the giant sculpture suspended in the main Turbine Hall. It's been a fun few hours of wandering the exhibits.

“Oh, I’d love to, but I can’t,” you obfuscate, feeling sheepish as you bring your gaze to him.

“Hooking up?” he inquires with a comedy eyebrow wiggle.

“Maybe,” you deflect, tucking your hair behind an ear, somehow bashful to talk with him about your first date in six years. “I’ll have to see how the date goes first.”

“A date? That’s wonderful!” He seems genuinely enthused, a big smile claiming his whole face.

“Yeah, I mean… I hope so? Let’s see. It’s been a bloody long time,” and saying that, nerves flare in your belly. “Not sure what I should wear, to be honest,” you admit, glancing down, self-conscious of your jeans and simple black top. “You think this is okay?”

“Of course it is,” he dismisses casually. “You look as beautiful as you always do,” the compliment just falls from his lips as if you asked about the weather. It still gives you that slightly gooey sensation under your ribs. Bastard.

——

The next evening you’re three cocktails down at Bar Americain on a night out with some work friends when your phone buzzes.

BB: How was the date?

Y/N: He cried about his custody arrangement at the table.

BB: Divorced dad, eh? How fast did you scarper?!
BB: Guess it will be a while until you can get that orgasm, lol.

Y/N: ... I err, didn't?
Y/N: Oh, I got one.

BB: You slept with him?!?

You always love to push it with him when you are tipsy, be a little daring with what you say. So you have your tongue in your cheek, wishing you could see his face when he reads what you are about to reply.

Y/N: Yeah, I mean, to be clear, the crying didn't turn me on. Not one of my kinks. But he had these nice hands, and I could tell from his jeans something good was going on down there. I was right. 8 out of 10, very nice.
Y/N: And he didn't grow wings to fly off before I had an orgasm, either… so win!

BB: How does one hang up on a text….?

Y/N: 😜

Five minutes later, your phone buzzes again.

BB: Wait. Do all women rate the dicks of the men they sleep with?

Y/N: I don't know all the women in the world, Ben…

BB: How is that an answer?

Y/N: 🤷♀️

“Ant…” Benedict calls, tossing his phone aside on his kitchen island and going to consult his brother across the room. He’s pretty sure that can't be all women, can it?

——

“I don't understand this at all,” Kate frowns, resting her weapon on her shoulder like a lumberjack.

“What don’t you understand?” you reply, staring at the target at the other end of the cage. You've decided this is an excellent cathartic way to do girls' night—just flinging axes at Whistle Punks after a hard work day in early November.

“You think he's attractive?” she pauses to applaud your throw as it smacks just below the bullseye.

“Yup.”

“You get on really well and Facetime and text every day?”

“Yup.”

“He’s straight?”

“Yup.”

“But you’re NOT fucking?” Kate quizzes, shooting you a look as she steps up to the plate.

“Nope.”

“I literally don't understand,” brow creasing as she takes her aim.

“Why can't you be proud of me? Not just crawling into bed with him on the rebound. He’s become a really close friend. Plus, I get the straight man’s perspective on things. It's really helpful now that I’m back on the market again. I can talk to him about sex stuff, and he's honest,” you argue.

“Sounds wrong to me…”

“Kate, you are fucking a married man,” you point out her hypocrisy archly.

“Yeah… and that's the point! I'm actually fucking him. What sort of Bert and Ernie shit do you and this Ben have going on?!”

“Please. Bert and Ernie are lovers,” you answer scornfully.

“Well, if they were, all the more reason you guys should be?!” she practically yells, hurling her axe with such gusto the manager comes to check on you.

——

Benedict takes you for dinner in the run-up to Christmas at some place so trendy it doesn't even appear to have a name. It's also where something transpires that haunts your spicier dreams for weeks.

As usual, it starts with you both squabbling.

“Oh please, women fake them all the time,” you dismiss, stirring your soup.

“I don't doubt it,” he agrees, “but men can do it too.”

You shoot him a withering look. “Please. Half of men can't even fake enthusiasm; there's no way a man could fake an orgasm,” you argue with finality.

His eyebrows shoot up briefly as you take a triumphant sip. He puts his fork down and wipes his face with a napkin. Then he makes a low rumbling noise. Perhaps the food doesn't agree with him. When he does it again a second later, you get concerned.

“You okay?”

He doesn't answer; he just makes the noise again. It's a low growl that almost reverberates around in his chest cavity, and something about it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

“Is your food bad?” you ask, a frown flitting over your face.

Again no answer. Benedict just makes another noise, louder this time. It’s definitely closer to a moan, and he takes a deep breath rolling his head to one side as if he's stretching his neck and really enjoying the sensation. Somehow you can't look away; you just stare at him, spoon in hand. Wondering what the hell he is doing, but captivated at the same time.

“Mmmm, that's it, baby,” he groans, and your insides are suddenly aflame. You've never heard his voice go into that register, it's low and throaty, and you feel a flush creeping up your chest.

“Don't stop,” he moans and throws his head back with a gasp, his Adam’s Apple bobbing hard, and it's then you realise what he is doing. He is faking an orgasm. Right here. In public. In a bloody restaurant.

“Okay, Ben,” you hiss, “fine, you win the argument,” attempting to get him to stop.

But it doesn't work. His head tips back down, and two dilated pupils bore into yours, a hazy ring of blue around black.

“Do you like that?” He’s staring you down as he says it, panting slightly, his jaw firm, challenging, goading.

You want to crawl into a ball and disappear. How much of that is because your fellow diners are starting to look over versus how much your body is rioting is undetermined.

“Yesssss,” he hisses, closing his eyes and biting his lip.

“Ben,” you warn, but again it falls on deaf ears. There is nothing you can do to stop this. Mortification routes you to the spot—that and the pounding in your ears and the little frisson of static running down your spine.

“You feel so good, baby,” he groans with a tiny tilt of his body; it's enough to make your imagination run wild—places it shouldn't. Dear god, this isn't right. He is your friend, one of your best friends; you can't be thinking such things.

To distract yourself, you look around at your fellow diners apologetically, shrugging as if you don't understand what he is doing. Thankful there are no kids in sight.

“Look at me,” he commands gruffly, and without thought, you obey; your eyes tear back to his. He is doing this deliberately, goading a response from you, from your body. And something in your snaps, you won't let him win like this.

“Go ahead, do it,” you mutter through slightly clenched teeth, so quiet only he can hear it. If he is going to do this, damn him, let him.

His hands wrap around the edges of the small table separating you, long fingers splaying out, and then his short blunt nails scratch down the wood. You don't think about those big, shapely hands doing the same thing on your body, no, definitely not. He is groaning and panting hard now, and it's utterly convincing. You can just picture him on top of….. STOP IT! You screech your mind to a halt. Don't go there.

“Come with me,” he snarls softly, just for you, and part of you wants to whisper back: yes, please, but instead, you bite the corner of your tongue to prevent a sound from escaping.

Then he turns theatrical, open hands thumping the table, grunting hard and rhythmically, and you just have to sit there and take it, so to speak. Just endure this weird mix of utter embarrassment and confusing arousal. Knowing you are flushed from head to toe. You daren't look around at the rest of the place, the buzz of conversation mostly dying out as they watch this formidable reenactment.

“Yessss, yesss, yessss,” he chants, and with a few convulsive body jerks and a long groan, his head lolls back, and he exhales a ragged breath loudly.

There are a few seconds of silence, and then he clears his throat, straightens up in his chair, shoots you a shit-eating grin, picks up his forks and jubilantly takes a bite of his dinner. He doesn't even bother to say anything; he knows he has won that argument, fair and square. You are still too shocked and disconcerted to speak.

“Sir, Ma’am,” the maître d' is suddenly at your table, “we would like you to leave, please.” his tone is decidedly stern. After a brief exchange of glances, you both burst into spontaneous giggles.

As you are bundled out of the door unceremoniously, not even being asked to pay, you hear a man ask a waiter a question that makes you laugh even louder.

“Did he have the daily special?”

Chapter 5: This Was Never The Way I Planned

Summary:

A double date with an unexpected outcome...

Notes:

Originally posted on tumblr

3 months later

“Your face is naked!!”

“Not quite the greeting I was expecting,” he laughs and leans in to give you a quick hug.

It’s New Year's Eve, and Benedict has shaved his beard off since you saw him a few days before Christmas. He looks younger and older at once, somehow, without it. Very handsome, though. His strong jawline is even more apparent now. Bastard.

You’re at some fancy rooftop party somewhere on Shoreditch High St., agreeing to be each other's plus ones, both of you not wanting to stay home and get maudlin about how your lives have changed since the last New Year celebrated with other halves.

“I like it,” you offer, “I can see more of your face.”

“This is indeed my face,” he laughs. “I figure new year, new me,” he shrugs, and you completely understand his reasoning. You briefly considered dying your hair for a similar reset.

A few hours later, you’re both quite a few drinks in, sitting at the bar. Most people, by this point, are dancing. The music has a hypnotic, heavy bass that makes you sway subconsciously on your bar stool.

“Come on, let’s dance then,” it’s almost a defeated sigh as he hauls you to your feet, two large hands landing on your hips as he walks you forward from behind. The touch surprises you, but it’s most definitely not unwelcome.

“You don’t dance,” you laugh over your shoulder as he propels you towards the dancefloor. Then gasp as he grabs your hand and expertly spins you away and back, your body curled into his—a warm solid mass.

“Don’t I?” It’s silky, murmured into your hair, and your mouth drops open in surprise.

“Benedict Bridgerton!” You admonish as he starts to lead you expertly in a salsa-type dance. “How dare you keep this from me!”

He spins you away again with a devilish grin, then back into his arms, your bodies swaying together. Something in your tummy flutters as he leads you in a dance, his hold always respectful but the moves undeniably sensual. You can feel the latent power in his body as it flexes around you. It makes your thoughts scatter in directions they shouldn’t—like when you got a preview of his sexual prowess, although for comic effect, in the restaurant weeks ago. The way he growled ‘look at me’ has occasionally popped into your head at the most inopportune moments since, making you squeak self-consciously. Last week, you dropped the gravy at Christmas dinner when it happened.

“TEN SECONDS TO NEW YEARS!!” the DJ yells, cutting into your abstraction and turning down the music.

There is an awkward moment where you stop dancing but stay holding each other as if you are, as everyone around you starts counting down. Your gaze falls from his eyes to his lips unconsciously.

“Do you want to get some air?” he blurts out, and you nod, grateful. It suddenly feels too hot on the dancefloor.

He releases his tight hold and slots your hand into his, leading the way, weaving through the crowd until you are out on the terrace. It’s so cold and crisp that few other people brave it. You stand awkwardly, half facing each other as party poppers go off inside, people yelling, and couples kissing.

His eyes cut to yours as you share a slightly awkward smile, uncertain, even tipsy, about what you should do.

“Happy New Year,” Benedict says softly.

“Happy New Year,” you reply, a flutter in your gut as he moves in for a hug and a friendly kiss.

It’s just a peck on the lips, but your stomach leaps regardless. His lips are warm and soft in the cold night air. You long to linger, grab his clothing and draw him in for more, bow your body into him, and let him plunder from you. The want for much more is electric. However, it’s over in a second, and when you pull apart, something in his expression looks thoughtful, almost puzzled.

Just as you go to say something to cut the tension of the moment, someone very drunk stumbles out of the party and projectile vomits right next to you both, narrowly avoiding your shoes.

“Seems an apt metaphor for the year we’ve just had,” Benedict comments drolly. And just like that, the odd spell between you is broken as you share a laugh and quickly move away.

——

“I’m not sure about this,” Kate wavers as you drag her down the pavement with your arm looped in hers on a cold Thursday evening the following March.

“Ben is a great guy; I really think you’d like him. It’s just dinner; where’s the harm?” you cajole.

This is a plan you and Benedict had hatched over dinner last week. He softly admitted he thought he might be finally ready to start dating again and did you know of anyone single. Your first thought was, of course, Kate, wanting her to find a good man to pull her out of the toxic thing she has with that married man. The idea of your two closest friends potentially finding happiness together gives you such a warm glow. You suggested a double date, a safe way for you to introduce each other to people you know. That’s when he lit up and said he was confident you’d like his older brother Anthony.

So now you are marching towards the restaurant to meet Benedict and his brother.

“I still don’t understand why you are trying to set me up with this guy if you have deemed him not good enough to date yourself,” she grouses.

“Kate, that's not it at all. He’s a fantastic guy. Definitely good enough to date. We are just friends, that’s all,” you insist.

She shoots you a side-eye.

“Listen, I’ll admit, this is going to be his first date since his marriage breakup,” you hold up a silencing hand when you see her go to protest, “but that’s a good thing. He has taken the time to heal and is finally ready to date again. He is a nice guy and available, unlike someone you know,” you conclude pointedly.

She sighs.

“He’s never going to leave his wife, Kate,” you add, knowing where her thoughts have run.

She slumps her shoulders. “You’re right; I know you’re right. Okay…” she concedes.

--

“Explain to me why you’re trying to set me up with the woman you are in love with,” Anthony drawls as their Uber crawls through Soho traffic.

Benedict splutters. “I’m not in love with her!”

“You talk about her ALL the time,” Anthony says pointedly, looking at him sceptically.

“She’s my best friend; of course I do,” Benedict frowns. “And you just said you wanted to meet someone who isn’t - I quote - so dumb you want to smack yourself. She’s smart, and I think you’d get on really well.”

“Fine,” Anthony capitulates, “but you’re paying for dinner, and if it goes tits up, remember, this was all your idea.”

“Guilty as charged,” Benedict concedes, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

--

Twenty minutes later, you are sat around a circular table, close to Anthony, opposite Benedict, who sits close to Kate. You wouldn’t deny that Anthony is a handsome man, and you can see the family resemblance, even though his eyes are brown to Benedict’s blue. He’s different in personality, though, no-nonsense, forthright and every inch the CEO he is. Very different to Benedict’s more laid-back temperament that you are so used to. It’s obvious Anthony runs on a schedule, whereas Benedict lives in the moment.

How different they are preoccupies your mind, to the point it overshadows your listening to him as he speaks. Too caught up in your own analysis. The conversation is one-sided as he waxes lyrical about the things he loves - apparently mostly sailing and investments so far - topics you struggle to contribute to.

“Kate,” you pipe up when there is an awkward lull after you have all placed your orders. “Benedict used to live in France, just like you,” you offer as a conversation starter for them.

“Oh, where did you live?” she asks him.

“Paris. You?”

“Grenoble.”

And they sort of both look at you askance, wondering what else you can do to assist. It’s obvious there is not much chemistry there, and they are struggling even to make small talk.

“Anthony,” Benedict leaps in, seeing it is quiet on your side too, “y/n here’s parents used to live in Twickenham, right by your beloved Harlequins,” hoping that will help you.

“Urghhh, Harlequins. Really?” Kate cuts in, unable to school her disgust. You forgot about her somewhat incongruous love for rugby—what started as something about wanting to see thick thighs morphing into a whole pastime for her.

Instantly you see Anthony bristle. “What's wrong with the Harlequins?”

“Umm, I think you mean, what’s right with them, don’t you?” Kate shoots back over the table, tapping a painted nail on the surface. “Your team has been shit this year,” she opines, forthright, tossing her hair.

“What do you know about rugby?” Anthony leans in, his whole demeanour changing, suddenly looking very engaged for the first time this evening.

“More than you ever will, probably,” Kate raises a challenging eyebrow and leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.

Before you know it, they have launched into a heated, complex debate about the sport, gesturing wildly and arguing back and forth. You’ve never seen Kate so animated. And while you don’t know Anthony, anyone could read from his body language how invested he is.

Your eyes drift across the table to Benedict and his to you. Realising what is happening, feeling guilty, the person you have brought for each other is not a good match for either of you. A little shocked at how instant Kate and Anthony’s connection, albeit antagonistic, is.

As the meal is served and the wine bottle content diminishes, conversation flows easier between the four of you than your pairs. But it seems like, at every opportunity, Kate and Anthony find a reason to challenge each other on everything from what should be included in a full English breakfast to the state of politics. As your dinner plates are taken away, they are fighting about Netflix.

“You are saying people should be able to share accounts, ad infinitum? Do you have any idea how much that is abused?” Anthony decries, very much in businessman mode.

“Oh yeah, poor little rich boy Netflix. They are so impoverished they were only able to spend, what, $20 million per episode on the last series of Stranger Things? Positively bankrupt. Pass me a tiny violin,” Kate sneers rolling her eyes.

Benedict's gaze cuts to yours, concerned, but you just shrug. It seems like they are getting pleasure from riling each other up; you see how Kate’s eyes flash, and it's not in annoyance. She is stimulated by it, sparring with a handsome man who can actually keep up with her for once. It’s more than a rare thing; it’s the first time you’ve ever seen it.

So when Anthony’s phone rings and he insists he needs to take it, Kate uses the break in their bickering to head to the loos.

“Bloody hell,” Benedict blows out his cheeks as you are left alone together at the table.

“They either hate or adore each other, I think maybe both,” you opine, taking a gulp of wine.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” he confesses, shaking his head disbelieving.

“It's a long time since I've seen Kate be quite this animated, I’ll admit,” you shrug.

As dessert arrives in their continued absence, you and Benedict chat amiably, shifting your seats closer to sit next to each other. In fact, it's only as you put down the spoons after sharing a creme brûlée that you notice Kate and Anthony have been gone for quite a while now—fifteen minutes or more.

“Where are they?” you frown.

“Ant headed that way when he took his call,” Benedict states, nodding towards a corridor.

“I think that's where the loos are,” you hum, thoughtful.

You exchange looks.

“Do you think they bumped into each other and continued arguing outside? I think there’s an outdoor space back there,” his tone intrigued.

You shrug. “Maybe?”

“I need the gents anyway. Let me go check,” he smiles.

“Okay,” you nod, reaching for your phone to text Kate.

Y/N: Where are you?

You've barely scrolled through a few Insta posts when Benedict is back with what you can only describe as a haunted look on his face.

“What’s wrong?” your question is a reflex to his expression.

“Yeah, uh, they’re not fighting,” he stutters.

“What happened then?”

“Uhhh, they are umm…” you've never seen him look so awkward and embarrassed.

Then the penny drops.

“Fucking hell!”

“Yeah…” his eyebrows shoot up.

“I have to see!” you stand up.

He reaches out and grabs your elbow. “No… you really don't.”

“Are they actually fucking?” your ask is a whisper.

“Pretty much,” he exhales, “I walked away when I saw… movement.”

“Wow,” you utter, then after a few minutes of silence. “Still sort of want to see,” you murmur, and Benedict looks at you with intrigue. “What?” you add, defensive.

“Never took you for a voyeur…” he comments, an element of gravelliness there.

“Oh, come on, our best friends are fucking on some outdoor dining tables. We should at least check they are okay,” you answer in a playful tone; you cant help.

“That's my brother,” he reminds deadpan.

“OK, fine, you stay here,” you stick your tongue out fractionally, feeling his incredulous gaze as you stalk down the corridor, shooting him a wink over your shoulder as you go.

At the far end of the hallway is a glass door, and as you pull up, you survey the outside space; over to the left, there is an outdoor deck filled with outdoor dining tables. The light is low, but there indeed is Kate, perched on a table edge, her shapely, beautiful legs wrapped around Anthony, her skirt pushed up around her hips as they kiss hard. If they aren't doing it, they are doing an excellent impression of it, him rocking against her slowly, everything concealed by the expensive dark wool coat he wears.

Somehow you linger, almost hypnotised by how good they look together. Part of you is so very pleased for your friend, completely unsurprised she would just go for it like this; when she wants something, she grabs it with gusto. Apparently, that includes one Anthony Bridgerton. If you are being honest with yourself, an even more significant part of you is jealous. It’s been a while since you shared a passionate moment like that.

Taking a deep breath, releasing there could well be CCTV of you peering at them, you turn around to return to your seat. At the other end of the corridor is Benedict, watching you. He looks mildly troubled, to the point you feel self-conscious as you walk towards him.

“You watched them for a while,” he comments with a slightly uneven tone, a little vein in his neck pulsing.

“They look good together, not going to lie,” you offer with a neural shrug as you pull up next to him, and something makes you look up into his eyes. His pupils are slightly dilated. It's a very beguiling look on him. You don’t seem able to look away.

“Do you often watch other people have sex?” It’s an odd cadence like he’s attempting nonchalance and failing.

“I don’t make a habit of it,” you respond truthfully, keeping your voice low, not only not to be overheard but also to ensure he has to stay close to hear it, enjoying the proximity when he seems so flustered. “I was trying to figure out if they were actually doing it or just something else.”

“Something else?”

“Maybe just hand stuff?” you suggest.

“Yeah…I shouldn’t have asked,” he admits, pulling a face. “I don’t want to think about my brother doing.. that. Or anything really.”

“Let’s get out of here then?” you offer, moving back towards the table and picking up your coat from the chair back.

He glances back towards the glass door and then nods. “I already paid. We could,” he comments. “Do you think they’d be okay with it?”

“I doubt they even remember we were here tonight,” you comment dryly.

--

You and Benedict retire to a pub a few doors down, grabbing a drink and sitting in a quiet corner. Just as you go to take a sip, your phone pings.

Kate: Where did you go?

“Looks like they emerged,” you inform him as your fingers fly over the screen, composing a reply just as his phone pings too.

Y/N: We left. We saw you guys…

Kate: Oh… you dirty little pervs 😉

Y/N: Says the woman fucking on a public dining terrace

Kate: We weren’t fucking!! I gave him a handjob, and he fingered me at the same time.

Kate: I did it to shut him up, tbh. It worked. 😌

Kate: Such an arrogant twat.

Kate: Fuck, he has a nice cock, though.

Kate: Oh God… I really like him. 🫣

You chuckle as you watch your friend unravel in real-time. You glance up and see Benedict is head down in his phone, too, probably texting with Ant.

Kate: Fuck it. I’m going home with him. He just asked.

Kate: I can’t say no to a cock (all senses of the word) like that.

Kate: Ciao Bella xx

Kate: if you don’t hear from me in 3 days, send an SOS. I don’t want a pussy prolapse…

Y/N: Wow, the ✨romance✨

Kate: No joke, I think imma marry this one.

Y/N: 🤣🤣🤣

Kate: Bitch I’m serious. You’ll see…

“They are going home together,” you mutter to Benedict as he puts his phone down.

“So I hear,” he raises his eyebrows with a twisted lip.

“What does it say about us that we thought they would be a good match for you and me? When it seems they were a much better match for each other?” You ponder aloud, almost vulnerable in tone.

“Shut up and drink your wine,” he grumbles.

That is an entirely fair suggestion.

Chapter 6: Just Somebody That I Used To Know

Summary:

Exes cause some unexpected moments for both you and Benedict…

Notes:

Originally posted on tumblr

3 months later

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you elbow him in the ribs, maybe uncharitably, but he’s being mildly irritating. ”Let’s just stick to practical stuff,” you argue, seizing his laptop and bringing it in front of you to take over.

“Come on, who doesn’t need an 18th-century replica cannon?” Benedict argues jovially, hooking his chin onto your shoulder and fluttering his eyelids in an attempt to get his way.

“I would argue your brother and my best friend,” you state pointedly, looking at him askance with a raised eyebrow, even as you secretly enjoy his silliness.

“Hmm, maybe you’re right,” he hums, sitting back up straight, “they’d probably just find a way to actually weaponise it during one of their fights.”

It’s three months later, and, just as she predicted on the first night they met, Kate and Anthony are engaged. Returning from a trip to Lake Cuomo two weeks ago, she had an enormous rock on her left hand and a grin like a Cheshire Cat, not just because of the jewellery. She claimed she orgasmed for thirty minutes straight even before she got the ring. You’re still in a low-key disagreement with her about whether that’s even possible.

Today is an uncharacteristically sweltering June day, so you and Benedict are taking refuge in the cool air-conditioning at Battersea Power Station, down the road from the gallery he’s exhibiting in. You sit on a sofa with iced coffees trying to cobble together a gift registry—a task Kate and Anthony have lumbered you both with as matron of honour and best man.

“Who has their wedding registry at Harrods and Fortnum and Mason anyway?” you grouse.

“Family tradition,” he states airily. Sometimes you forget just how rich the Bridgertons are.

“You’re far too fucking posh,” you roll your eyes. “What’s wrong with John Lewis, like normal people?”

“Tell you what,” one of Benedict’s arms encircles your waist and lightly tickles, causing you to squirm, a distraction tactic to wrestle back control of his laptop with his other hand, “if we get married, the registry can be at John Lewis, and you can explain to my tearful mother why you want to break Bridgerton tradition.”

You know it’s an offhand, meaningless comment said in jest, but the words ‘we get married’ seem to echo around your head, even as he cackles triumphantly to himself and clicks ‘add to registry’ on the ridiculous cannon. As revenge, you swipe his brownie and take a big bite which he attempts to snatch back. You are giggling and tussling, crumbs flying, when a sophisticated French voice cuts into your childish playfulness.

“Benoit!? Je pensais que c'était toi!”

Your giggles die out as you untangle from Benedict to observe a beautiful petite brunette woman with elfin features. She clings to another striking woman who can barely conceal her look of disdain.

You feel Benedict freeze up, his body suddenly tense. Defensive.

“Tessa,” he nods after what feels like an age of awkward silence.

Oh god. It’s her. This is his ex-wife. For some reason, here in London.

“It’s good to see you,” she switches to lightly accented English, her arm gripping the other ladies tighter.

“Likewise,” he says curtly, holding himself stiffly in a way that suggests anything but.

Tessa turns her doe-eyes to you, pointedly awaiting an introduction. It takes him a moment to realise it, and your chest suddenly aches in sympathy for the little-boy-lost expression you can see through the cracked veneer of civility.

“Oh right… Thérèse Durand, Tessa, meet y/n y/l/n,” he gestures flatly. “Y/n, this is Tessa… and Clarissa,” he sneers the other woman’s name, and instantly you know who she is—the one Tessa left him for.

You politely nod and make an awkward small wave gesture, unsure what else to do. Benedict appears to be in some form of shell shock; gently, you squeeze his arm until he blinks as if coming back online.

“Well… I can see you are busy,” Tessa nods at the laptop, “I will not delay you plus,” switching back to French for the last word, exchanging loaded looks with Clarissa.

With another awkward nod, they turn their heels and walk away.

‘She looked weird, didn’t she?’ he stutters as they retreat.

“I don’t know her, Ben,” you remind softly, “I just met her.” Mainly you are concerned by how utterly disconcerted he is by merely bumping into her.

“Trust me, she looked weird,” he affirms, still watching the space they occupied even as they turn a corner and disappear.

You just rub his arm in what you hope is a soothing pattern, unsure what to say.

“Ughhh. A continent of 745 million people… I was just bound to run into my ex-wife at some point, right?” his sarcastic humour flaring as he puts his head in his hands.

“You even tried to put a body of water between you,” you concur, attempting levity. “Seems bloody unlikely to happen… but then I’d say so is a replica cannon for a wedding present, but you insist on it,” you joke softly, bumping his shoulder lightly.

When he tilts his head up and cracks a tiny smile, you breathe a silent sigh of relief.

—

“Although marrying you may suggest otherwise, I have not had a complete taste bypass,” Kate barbs at Anthony as they stand around a coffee table the next day.

They are moving in together pre-wedding, and they definitely have strong opinions about each other’s possessions. You and Benedict have arrived to assist them in unpacking their fancy Kensington mews, but your primary role may well be as referee.

Kate turns to you. “Y/n, please, do you like this monstrosity?”

You purse your lips, not wanting to offend.

“Be honest,” Anthony adds, hands on his hips, looking at your expectantly.

Sheepishly, you shake your head.

“What's wrong with it?” Anthony asks.

“Honey,” Kate loops her arms around his neck, “it’s so awful, I can’t even begin to tell you what’s wrong with it.”

Anthony rolls his eyes, but you can tell he secretly enjoys how she nuzzles his neck, and he pulls her into his arms. “Brother, what do you think?”

Benedict is staring out of the window; he doesn't even turn around, just mumbles. “It’s fine.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, concerned about his moroseness but say nothing.

“Look, I think it will be fine in your home office,” Kate offers conciliatory. “It will go perfectly with that ugly drinks hutch thing,” she suggests, wanting to sound helpful.

“Wait, wait….,” Anthony withdraws from their embrace. “You don't like my home bar??” he throws his hands up in a what-the-hell gesture.

Kate goes to answer but is interrupted by Benedict turning around to speak. “You know, we started like this—little disagreements about things. We thought it was so cute. Well, want my advice? Put your initials on your shit now, so you know whose is whose before it all gets jumbled together.”

“Ben …” you murmur a warning, seeing his irritation flaring. He ignores you.

“Cos someday, believe me, you will go twenty rounds on who gets this coffee table. This stupid, ugly, the-80s-called-and-they-want-their-glass-monstrosity-back will cost you five times as much as you paid for it in lawyers fees from the firm of I-don’t-even-want-this-but-I-want-you-to-have-it-even-less and Sons.”

“I thought you liked it?” Ant counters, frowning deeply.

“I WAS BEING POLITE!!” Benedict exclaims loudly before storming out.

Kate and Anthony gape at the doorway, shocked at the completely uncharacteristic outburst.

“He… he just bumped into Tessa,” you offer quietly as if to explain, then with a nod, go to seek him out.

“I want you to know something,” you hear Kate say as you leave, pulling Anthony into her arms and placing a kiss on his cheek. “I will always hate that fucking ugly eyesore you claim is furniture.”

 

You find Ben outside lingering on the pavement, kicking a loose stone into the gutter. Looking to all intents and purposes like he needs a cigarette to calm down.

The minute he sees you, he holds up a hand, an admission of fault. “I know, I know.”

“Ben…. you’re going to have to find a way not to express every feeling you have the moment you have them,” you point out, aiming for delicacy.

This morning he berated a kid in Costa for getting his tea order wrong, which is unlike him. You know that the only reason can be bumping into Tessa and all the residual anger and hurt about it bubbling to the surface.

“I just bumped into my ex fucking wife. So yeah, excuse me if I try to warn my brother what a shitshow their life could become,” he grumbles, confirming your suspicions.

“There are times and places for these things… and when they are just moving in together might not have been the time to bring up divorce,” you try to point out gently.

“Oh really? Well, next time you’re giving a lecture on being a fucking droid, R2, let me know, and I’ll be sure to sign up,” he snarks.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!?” you demand, hands on hips indignantly, your own anger flaring at his cutting remark.

“It means nothing bothers you. I never see you get upset about Tom. I never see you get upset about anything at all; in fact,” he derides. “Don’t you care your longest relationship ended? Don't you experience any sense of loss?!”

“I feel things; I just choose to deal with my break up privately, like a grown-up,” you volley back, aiming to wound as much as he did.

“Please,” he rolls his eyes witheringly. “Sleeping with a bunch of idiots doesn't mean you have dealt with your breakup; it just means you’re avoiding it.”

“Better than not fucking anyone, you coward,” you shoot back, hurt he would bring up your recent, mildly slutty behaviour.

For a few moments, it's just a nettled staring match; you are not willing to give an inch.

“Besides, even if we know relationships are more than likely going to fuck up, you don't wish it on your friends or family, right? You want to believe that it will work for them. I mean, I don’t fully get those two as a couple, but fuck they are so happy, Ben,” you gesture at their windows. “I want to believe it will work for them. I really do. And even that it will work for us again one day. That we will find our people.”

You see all the wind fall out of his sails, deflating before your eyes.

“Fuck, you’re right,” he sighs, “I'm so sorry,” he pulls you into a hug. ”I never want to fight with you,” he avows, his breath warm on your temple.

“I'm sorry too,” you admit into his jaw. “I didn't mean the coward thing,” you mumble, feeling guilty but enjoying the warmth of his embrace.

“No, but you’re right,” he concedes. “I need to get back out there properly. God, Tessa just really threw me for a fucking loop yesterday, and I didn't sleep at all. I’m taking it out on all the wrong people today.”

His honest confession feels like the Ben you know and, yes, love. You band your arms around him tighter and stay quiet for a few beats, knowing all is forgiven.

Just as you break apart, Anthony bursts through the front door hauling the coffee table with considerable effort.

“Don't say a fucking word,” he grouses.

—

“Could you come over?” you snuffle as the call connects.

It’s a month after Kate and Anthony moved in together, and you know they are out celebrating tonight, so you don't want to bother her.

“What’s wrong?” Benedict’s cadence changes as he realises you sound off. It appears he’s moving to a quieter spot, the loud background noise of wherever he is fading slightly.

“He’s getting married!” You wail, gesturing wildly so the wine almost slops out of the bottle you are swigging from.

“Who is?” You can hear his frown, even down the phone.

“Tom!” You exclaim over a hiccup as if irritated he can’t read your mind.

“I’ll be right there,” the reassuring promise in his sincere tone makes you clasp your chest. Good old handsome, sweet, reliable Ben. What a great friend.

 

Half an hour later, you answer the door with a tissue in hand, uncaring that you likely look a state—your hair half up in a messy bun and swamped by an oversized hoodie, concealing your pyjama shorts and vest.

You collapse into Benedict’s arms when he shoots you a sympathetic look.

“Thank you. For coming. Why are you so smartly dressed?” you hiccup into his fancy shirt.

“I was uhh on a date,” he admits reticently as you break apart.

“You left a date!?”

“Yep. I just said my best friend is having a crisis, and I had to go. It’s the truth,” he shrugs.

“Aw, I’m your best friend,” you pout with quivering eyes, which makes him laugh.

“You look like that silly emoji. And, of course, you are,” he says as if it's the most obvious thing. “I mean, I didn't tell her that my best friend is a woman—probably not a first date revelation,” he points out, slinging an arm around your shoulders and manoeuvring you towards your sofa.

“Oh god, first date?! Shit, I'm sorry. Go, go back to her!” You attempt to shoo him away, but he pulls you tighter under his arm and rolls his eyes as he surveys the mess that is currently your living room—so very out of character.

“You really did spiral, didn't you?” he chuckles, picking his way through the scattering of empty crisp packets and Cadbury wrappers to place you back on the sofa.

“She is supposed to be his rebound fling; she's not supposed to be ‘The One’,” you bawl, pointing at your laptop screen, still open to Tom’s wedding invitation.

Benedict takes the laptop and sighs, exiting the email window and smiling to himself as he sees your wallpaper - it's you and him in the novelty photobooth from last year's New Year party, heads together and grinning inanely. He closes the lid and twists to look at you, realising you have indeed not dealt with the heartbreak of your split with Tom at all over the last few months. You were just in denial about it all up until now. Knowing he has to tread carefully, he touches your shoulder.

“You broke it off because you wanted different things, remember?” he soothes. “Do you suddenly want kids?”

“No,” you pull a disgusted face.

“Then this is for the best,” he posits, brushing the hair from your cheek caught in your tear tracts.

“I’m difficult,” you lament, wallowing in a touch of maudlin self-pity now you have an audience.

“Challenging,” he amends with a crooked smile.

“I’m too closed-off and particular,” you throw out.

“You know what you want and refuse to compromise,” he argues, rubbing a thumb over your cheek in a comforting motion.

You look up from your self-indulgent tears and see his handsome face defending your worst qualities as positives, and you have never wanted another human more in your life. Perhaps the bottle of wine isn't helping, but right now, all you want - emotionally, physically, sexually - is the man before you.

“Fuck me, Benedict,” you murmur.

He barks a laugh. “Yeah, you've got yourself in a pickle,” he opines, bemused. And you wonder if he's being deliberately obtuse.

“No…” you clarify, placing your hand over the one curled around your face. “Fuck me. Please,” you stare into his eyes intently, making your request clear.

A thousand reactions ripple across his face, mostly surprise and confusion, but you also see how his pupils dilate, making your heart race.

“I don't think that’s a good idea,” he stumbles as his gaze flits to your mouth.

“That's not a no,” you point out, boldly swinging into his lap, straddling him, as you see him wrestling with so many thoughts.

“We are best friends,” he whispers, sounding almost afraid.

“And as my best friend, I am asking you to take me to bed and fuck me,” you state plainly, sliding your thighs wider until your core rocks over the seam of his jeans, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck.

“You've had too much to drink.” He sounds like he's trying to clutch at straws, but you don't miss how his hand is gripping your hip now, fingers warm through the cotton of your pyjama shorts.

“Enough to be emboldened, not enough to be unaware of what I'm doing,” you supply, attempting to alleviate any fear he may have of taking advantage. “You would simply be helping a friend in need, please.”

With your cards now all on the table, you see he is frozen, the conflict writ large on his face and part of your heart cracks. Oh god, maybe he doesn't want this, and he has no idea how to let an upset, vulnerable friend down gently.

“Fuck…” you mutter and drop your forehead onto his shoulder. “I never stopped to consider you may not want to fuck me anymore. I’m such an idiot. That was 11 years ago….”

The hand on your hip flexes.

“That's not the problem,” he growls, and your head shoots up to see the vein in his temple pulsing.

“Then what is?” you whisper, your limbic system alive with the idea he finds you attractive.

“You have just found out your ex is getting married, you drank a bottle of wine, and now you are propositioning me. I’m worried a large part of you will hate me tomorrow if I say yes,” he confesses, sounding almost vulnerable. “I’d prefer to keep you as a friend than fuck you and have you resent me for it.”

“But you want to?” you whisper, craving the affirmation to your fragile ego.

“Like you wouldn't believe,” he barely murmurs it. “But please get off me.”

You see the sincerity in his eyes and back down, feeling so many things in your tipsy heart—guilt you backed him into a corner, sad he turned you down, happy he respects you enough to do so.

Believing it is the grown-up thing to release him from this messed-up evening, you climb out of his lap and head towards your front door. The shame and embarrassment are starting to creep in; your need to hide and deny what you did ramping up.

“You are a better friend than me,” you acknowledge as he trails behind you. “And I apologise. Thank you. I guess I just needed confirmation that I'm desirable to someone.” you mumble, looking at the floor.

“Didn't you just have a date last week?” he points out as you both hover in the hallway.

“Yeah, but that's different….”

“How?”

“It's not someone who truly knows me,” you sigh, finally looking up at him again. His eyes are soft with understanding. He's so beautiful you almost want to cry.

“I need you to know something…” his voice even, but there's something awkward in the way he stares at the wall over your shoulder as he speaks, “....you are a beautiful, sexy woman. Anyone would be lucky to have you. I just….” He trails off, struggling for the right words.

“I understand,” you nod conciliatory. “I’m going to be mortified when I sober up,” you admit sheepishly, and you see his shoulders slump.

“I can’t leave you, not like this. I’d be a bad friend.” He takes a deep breath and steps aside into your kitchen. “Come on,” he coaxes when you just stand there staring at him. “Let’s get you a cup of tea and sobered up.”

You then watch as he potters around your kitchen making you toast and tea at 9 pm on a rainy Thursday evening. It’s such a wonderful, giving thing to do that you can only stand there and watch, mildly dumbstruck. It’s only when the inviting aroma hits your nose that you realise you haven’t even eaten anything except crisps and chocolate since yesterday.

He leads you to the sofa and then hands you a steaming hot mug of tea just how you like it and a plate with two perfectly toasted slices of bread slathered in butter. You tackle them greedily, murmuring your thank yous as he takes a seat in your armchair, a respectable distance, and queues up something brainless for you to enjoy.

You don’t talk as the next two hours unfold, him giving you space but also his presence so you don’t spiral into thoughts of how your rash moment may have ruined your friendship. Wordlessly telling you he is here as a friend and everything will be okay, despite the awkwardness. Bringing you another round of tea and toast, making himself some this time too. Even handing you paracetamol from your bathroom cabinet to pre-empt the muzzy head you can feel approaching. It's like he can intuit your needs before you can, making your heart clench even harder.

“I’m mostly sober now,” you confess quietly as an episode of the show you’re watching ends. “And I’ll be okay, honestly. Thank you for dropping your plans and coming to check on me. And I’m truly sorry for what I did. Propositioning you. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Let's consider it even,” he smiles mildly. “For the car ride from St Andrews?” he prompts when you look confused.

“Okay,” you giggle, heaving a huge sigh of relief, knowing somehow all is forgiven.

“Now, if you are truly okay, I shall get out of your hair,” he offers, slapping his legs before rocking to his feet.

“I'm okay,” you confirm quietly, a little pang in your chest that is not wanting to be alone but not saying it. Instead, you also stand up and drift again towards your front door to show him out. You want to ask him to stay but know it's a selfish request.

“Thank you, bestie,” you overenunciate and throw your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for a bear hug.

“You are welcome, bestie,” he chuckles into your hair.

His body is warm and feels wonderful pressed against yours, and you linger, just indulging in the feeling of being held, squeezing your arms a little tighter, burying your face into his neck and huffing his delicious aftershave. You know you are pushing the boundary of what is acceptable for a hug between friends, but he's not fighting you off.

You pull back a little to look into his eyes. “Thank you, Ben, for everything,” more sincere now, sotto voce.

“You’ll be okay,” he assures, smoothing down your hair with tender strokes. “Dorset was just a blip on your radar. There is someone much better out there for you. Don't let him be the reason you doubt yourself. He is not worth your tears.”

It's a beautiful, supportive speech, and on instinct, you push up to give him a quick peck on the lips as a thank you. Just like at New Year's, his lips are warm and plush beneath yours as you press into them. Except this time, he freezes, and instantly, you realise your mistake.

“Shit, sorry,” you murmur as you fall back to your flat feet, realising that was a foolish move after what transpired earlier.

Something feels charged, and you sense a change in him, in his breathing.

“Again.” It's almost a snarl, and you worry you have annoyed him.

“Yes, Im sorry again,” you confirm meekly.

“No,” his eyes pop open, blazing, and his voice has taken on a different tone, almost foreign. “Again.” You merely frown until he pitches forward, his breath harsh on your lips. “Kiss me again.”

“But….” you begin to protest, even as you do as he asks, heart in your throat. Your lips meet, and he kisses you back this time—ferociously.

And a firework explodes in your chest.

It's as if you have never been kissed before, your skin tingling all over with instant exhilaration. As your lips slide together in an almost desperate dance, his hands grab your face, tilting your head to the left. Then he is opening his mouth….

Oh fucking hell.

Notes:

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Chapter 7: A Thousand Flowers Could Bloom

Summary:

It was inevitably going to happen....

Notes:

Please note the ratings change is due to THIS CHAPTER. If smut is not your thing, please skip this.

Same day

It's a blur as the kiss deepens; Benedict’s tongue glances yours, a tentative swipe before entwining. Something sweeps through your being, throwing you overboard, tossing you into a tsunami wave, your mind reeling as your hands stay limp by your side, still taken by surprise this is happening.

“Ben,” you stutter breathlessly when he withdraws fractionally.

“Don’t,” he growls, “don't you dare use that big brain of yours; just shut up.” His thumb is heavy on your cheek as he cups your jaw. “Just shut the fuck up for once in your bloody life.”

So, for once, you do just that. Letting your hands do the talking, looping around his neck to pull him back to you. That is the permission he needs, and suddenly, you are being spun around and pressed into your own hallway wall, him bearing the whole length of his being into you. You feel like you are drowning in him. He is all you can see, smell, and breathe.

Then, he obliterates every thought you have. Hunching down mid-kiss, he insinuates a warm thigh between your knees. Then he stands up straight, the meat of his substantial quad muscle snagging the seam of your sleep shorts, your clit mashed into your public bone, throbbing.

You mumble a curse into his mouth as his fingers locate the tab on your hoodie. The only sound is the slow release of the zip as he tugs it down and your own shallow panting over his lips as he does so. He smiles dangerously as the material parts, dropping it off your shoulders to the floor so you stand in tiny shorts and a white vest.

There is a noise in the back of his throat as his eyes sweep down briefly, lingering on your peaked nipples, then slender fingers wrap around the crest of your hipbones and flex, indicating he wants you to move. To ride the thigh that he has you dangling upon, up on your tiptoes.

“Use me,” he mutters like velvet. “Go ahead.”

“I….” You seem almost incapable of speech, too strung out on the tidal wave of chemicals racing around your body. “…need sex, please,” aware it sounds reedy.

He unwinds your hands from around his neck and pins them to the wall at shoulder height.

“Ride my leg, and then we will have sex,” he orders slowly, a knowing smirk on your cheekbone. “Come on; you don't think I can tell how much you need it?” He places a hot kiss on your skin. “You've been aching to come since you straddled me hours ago; don’t deny it.”

Fuckkkk….

This is what his ex, Gen, meant all those years ago. ‘Knees weak, pussy strong’ is how she paraphrased what he could do to her. You thought it was her exaggerating; now you realise it wasn’t. It’s like he’s a different person to the Ben that you know, but fuck if it isn't blisteringly hot.

So when he relinquishes your wrists, you wrap around him again, undulating on his leg, pressing your cheek into his, the friction of the layers of fabric adding to your arousal. It feels so good you speed up, grasping his neck.

“Yes, that’s it,” he pants approvingly in your ear, gripping your hips again in encouragement. With every stroke, you bump against a solid mass in his jeans, which makes you feel frantic and impatient for more. To come, to fuck, to do everything he will let you.

“Ben…” his name like honey, tumbling from your lips in your heightened state. You are too cowardly to lean back and look at him, see yourself reflected in his eyes; it feels too much like admitting this is real. Or perhaps you’re simply worried it will break this fevered spell, that he will put a stop to it, leaving you throbbing and bereft.

“Stop thinking,” he drawls, his breath hot on your temple, intuiting you are disappearing too much into your thoughts again, your pace slowing as you slide on him. He squeezes your hips roughly to the point you squeak. “Do you want me to order you to do it?” the voice lethally low. “Is that what you want?”

“I… I…” words fail. You have no idea.

He pulls back to cradle your jaw again, tilting your face to look at him. His hazy blue eyes are dilated to inky black, and his lips are flushed dark pink. “Y/n,” slow, sensual, rumbling from his ribcage, his fingertips warm on your cheeks. “When I tell you to do something, I mean it. Do it.” His thumb swipes your bottom lip. “Right now.”

“Help me,” it’s a desperate uncensored whisper.

“What do you need?” He smiles predatorily, his eyes sparkling in the low light.

“Hold me down; be firm,” confessing your desires. “Control me a bit.” You’ve never divulged that proclivity to any past lover, the craving for something with a hint of roughness, a light tussle. And yet, with your best friend, you can’t help but let it tumble out of you.

And perfect, perfect Ben, god, he obliges.

The hand on your hip digs in as the other slides around the globe of your bottom cheek, and you squeal as he spanks there with a harsh flick.

“I told you to ride my leg,” his directive clipped but somehow still laced with a laid-back bemusement, “so do it.”

It's so perfect you feel an urge to shake him and yell ‘yes’ and ‘this’. But instead, you bite your lip and do as bidden, riding the rough creases in his jeans, letting the texture catch your swollen clit in your thin cotton shorts. It feels so good you shudder, but still, you crave more.

“I want to ride your jeans naked.” Again, you cannot suppress your runaway tongue.

He makes a noise that is almost feral; a sizeable, warm hand slides up your spine underneath your vest, ruching the fabric until it snags on your breasts at the front. Without prompting, you release briefly to strip off the top, then immediately wind around him again like a vine. The soft cotton of his shirt snags delightfully on your nipples, and you can feel his body heat seeping through the thin material. Moaning your approval as his fingers splay wide, touching the sensitive skin of your lower back, right above your shorts.

“Take these off,” he runs a feathery touch above the waistband, the tone gruff and challenging.

He dips slightly and backs away a half pace, just enough to give you room to strip off the last of your clothing. He has not so much as undone a button, but the bulge in his jeans makes you swallow hard as you shimmy off your shorts. He probably wasn't expecting you to be without underwear, based on the noise he makes. You are grateful you have recently trimmed (for a failed date, as it turns out).

As your shorts hit the floor, he dives in for another mindblowing kiss. And before you know it, you are hauled back onto his thigh, completely naked, the denim feeling so perfect against your aching clit.

“You are so close, aren’t you?” he groans as your heat and wetness seep through his jeans, engulfing his quad.

All you can do in response is nod, mildly embarrassed, bury your face in his neck and move again in earnest, making faint noises into his skin. The drag of fabric on your engorged clit is so intoxicating you couldn't stop if you wanted to. He murmurs encouragements, touch searing your skin, just this side of painful; you will likely carry his fingermarks tomorrow.

“Come on, that's it,” he encourages, shifting his leg to increase your range of motion, pressing his erection into your hipbone as you crash into him.

Over and over, you ride, getting faster and faster, chasing the high that feels so tantalisingly close, your skin turning dewy with exertion, his body heat enveloping you. You need something to make you break, and he intuits it. One hand slides up your back to grasp the hair at the base of your skull.

“Give it to me,” he orders duskily, an untamed look in his eye, twisting his grip until your hair is taut against your scalp.

Then, the other hand leaves your hip and insinuates between your bodies, grabbing your breast and pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The rush of sensation, a little rough, just as you requested, hurls you past the edge you were skating. Convulsing on his leg, he keeps his hold on your hair and nipple as you snap. Eyes rolling closed as you cry his name and curse, coming so hard the world goes fuzzy. Shuddering and shaking, him moving to brace your body upright with him as you writhe.

“That's it, yesssss,” his victorious hiss in your ear is breathy and impressed.

There are a few moments of silence as you return to the room, so marvellously sated but somewhat mortified about what has just transpired.

“I…. I can't believe I did that,” you mutter into his skin, almost ashamed, even as your body still quivers from the best orgasm you can remember in many months.

“You were amazing,” he reassures into your ear.

“Don't ask me to look you in the eye,” you jest lightly, lips skimming his throat, unwilling indeed to meet his eye.

He chuckles, loosening his hold as he drops a kiss on your forehead.

“Are you honestly asking me to fuck you without looking at you?” he checks light-heartedly.

“I have an eye mask you can borrow,” you offer, giggling.

His responding laugh jiggles your whole body as he shifts to allow you back to your flat feet. Your leg muscles still twitching, still leaning into him for support.

“If you want to play with blindfolds, I am more than game,” he murmurs, cradling your face so you daren’t look away. This closeup and aroused he is a devastating sight, all cheekbones and blown pupils. And partnered with those words, in that hedonic tone, your insides are molten all over again.

“Me too,” you whisper back.

Before you know it, he picks you up effortlessly and strides across the hallway toward your bedroom door. This is a seismic shift in your friendship, but as he lowers you gently onto your bed, all you feel is elation. Butterflies in your gut as he climbs on top of you, still fully clothed.

“Ben, what do I have to pay to get you naked?” you grumble good-naturedly, tugging at the shirt around his shoulders, your usual banter flaring despite this surprising development.

He laughs as his lips land on your neck, warm and plush, kissing a line down to your collarbone that is all at once too much and not enough.

“I will get naked if you wear that blindfold you promised,” he jokes, your breath catching as you feel his chin stubble catch on the swell of your breast.

“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head, smiling as he pouts up at you, eyes sparkling.

The fact that the playfulness is still there makes you feel light as air, floating on feathers, him holding your gaze and slipping lower so the tip of his nose brushes your nipple.

“I was right all those years ago,” he inhales almost lewdly. “You really do have a fantastic pair of tits.” He looks up at you from your chest through heavy lashes with that same deadly lopsided smile from years ago, the one he gave you on the train, and once again, it makes you flush from head to toe.

“Naked Bridgerton, now,” you riposte with faux scolding, raising an eyebrow.

This would have been a very effective response had he not chosen that precise moment to envelope your nipple into his mouth and suck hard, instead making you call out, eyes fluttering closed as your spine curls up off the bed, the heat and suction perfect. Swirling his tongue around and using an edge of teeth, swapping to the other side to do the same before you open your eyes. Then he kisses his way back up, claiming another fiery kiss. As you go to weakly protest again about him being too clothed, he sits up and whips the shirt off over his head instead of undoing it, throwing it aside as your eyes fall open.

“What the fuck?!” It's an unbidden but honest response to the sight before you.

In the low light cast by your bedside lamp, he is all defined, sculpted lines—a shape you didn't think real humans came in. He laughs slightly abashed as you keep staring, raising up onto your elbows to drink in the view. You know he is in shape from the feel of his body when you hug him, but just how buff momentarily stuns you.

“You look like a bloody Michelangelo sculpture,” you declare, compounding his coyness.

“If you keep this up, I'm not taking off my jeans,” he warns demurely, in a voice that is both amused and humble.

You mime zipping your mouth shut and throwing away a key as he leans in laughing and busses a brief kiss on your lips. Your hands map his tapered torso, revelling in the supple, warm skin and contoured, lithe muscles and the catch in his throat as you do so. You pull him down on top of you; the weight and warmth of his naked chest meeting yours makes you hungry in a way you haven't felt for years. Eventually, you reach the waistband of his jeans, circling to the front and rapidly flicking open the button of his fly. He squeaks quietly into your passionate kiss, taken aback by your boldness.

“No going back now,” you warn as you carefully lower the zip of his fly over his straining cock.

“I think that ship sailed when I felt your orgasm on my thigh,” he replies drolly, as your eyes briefly fall to the damp patch you left there, cheeks flushing.

His bravado falters when you push his jeans down his slim hips, delving inside the back of his underwear to grab the peachy solid mass of his bottom. He groans into your cheek, and his mouth finds yours again. There is a wave of body heat as you shimmy his underwear and jeans down his leg, unseen as you kiss almost artlessly. He takes over, squirming his way out of them until they are also flung off the bed. You don't see his cock, but he presses down onto you as soon as he is naked, and you feel it brand your thigh, sizeable and hot.

“Let me see,” you almost whine, petulant.

He huffs a laugh, grabs your wrist, and guides your hand between your bodies. There, nestled within a patch of lightly trimmed hair, you feel the steely warmth of his cock.

“Ben,” you stumble out as you encircle the heated mass, feeling a trickle escape your body as you begin to pump him lightly, a thumb swiping the sticky precum at his head, loving the way it makes him stutter and moan into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he sounds winded, pulsing under your fingers.

“Are you okay?”

“Sorry, it's been… uhh… ages since someone else touched my cock,” he rushes out, sheepish.

The honesty makes something melt behind your ribs; this wonderful, handsome man, still recovering from heartbreak, has not had sex in so long that you want to give him - your best friend - everything, a need to please him burning bright. Not wishing to dwell on consequences, what any of this might mean after tonight.

“What do you want, Ben?” you query softly as you pump his cock in your fist.

“You,” he answers sweetly, plainly, breathily, “just you.” He tilts his head and sighs into your neck. “It's been so long since I had sex that I'm not certain I can satisfy you. It’s why I made you to come before; I couldn't bear to leave you in need.”

The vulnerable admission, a true friend confiding in another, makes you crave him, this, even more. The glibness of your recent casual hookups thrown into stark relief in this singular moment of intimate honesty. It's what has been missing from sex since your breakup with Tom. The shorthand that comes from knowing someone so well artifice crumbles; them able to see through all the layers you can hide behind with strangers.

“I bet you are better than you think,” the need to reassure seizing you. “The way you took control earlier was exactly what I needed. Then there is this…,” you squeeze his cock a little, “...now I understand why Gen said she would miss you so much,” you add unabashed, enjoying the feel of his unseen demure smile against your jaw.

“So you liked when I took control?” he queries, shifting the subject.

“Oh god, yes,” you avow, a little frisson racing down your spine at the memory from moments earlier, your grip flexing around his cock as you do so.

“Do you want me to do it again?” his cadence lowers to something more decadent as he removes your hand and traps it on the pillow next to your head.

“Yes, please,” it’s almost too keen.

Again, the noise he makes is an elixir, elation coursing in your veins. His long fingers lacing with yours, holding you down firmly, his mass weightier as he bears you down onto the mattress.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he rumbles, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below your ear. Your reply in the affirmative is a shaky exhale, a skitter of excitement across your skin at the very idea. “What was that?” his tone suddenly brusque, pushing up to look down upon you, his eyes boring into yours as he surges his cock, branding your inner thigh.

“Yes,” you enunciate crisply, struggling against his control, even though it’s precisely where you want to be, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips as his fingers sink further between yours, stretching your knuckles wide apart. He claims you in a vehement kiss, leaving you whimpering around his invading tongue, the tip of his cock rocking against your clit.

“Tell me you want me,” he orders, breath hot on your face, his hands still pinning you under him.

“I want you,” you answer reflexively, as simple and true as breathing.

He nuzzles your face, his cock sliding temptingly through your slick folds as you shudder, your pebbled nipples catching on the slab of his pectoral muscles, sighing shakily as he gently bites the shell of your ear. He surges his cock again, this time slipping lower, teasing your entrance, parting you with his tip. You inhale sharply at the warm mass, pressing insistently, not quite at the right angle to slip fully inside yet.

“Do you still have your IUD?” he asks quietly, the domineering mask slipping momentarily, releasing your wrists.

“Yes, just get inside me, please,” you respond, soft but fervent, raking fingertips down his back, loving the heated contours that flex as he moves to angle better.

Then, eleven years after you first idly thought of it on that drive down to London from Scotland, Benedict Bridgerton finally slides inside your body.

A blunt warmth spearing you open in a way that feels so good it makes your throat catch, and your eyes roll back in your head. A curse falls from you as he keeps going, finding your hilt as he bottoms out. The perfect fit, just the right side of an ache as you stretch around him. He exhales raggedly into your cheek and stills.

“Move please,” you implore, greedy for more, grabbing his bottom impatiently.

“Give me a moment,” he appeals, breaking persona again, the heat of his body cloaking yours.

“Please,” you coax gently, “Benedict.” You add, almost as an afterthought, using his formal name as if to underline the seriousness of your request.

He makes a noise and lifts to look down at you. “Call me that again,” he commands gravelly, overwrought.

“Benedict,” you repeat as if a tasty morsel you can’t resist.

He makes a hungry noise and withdraws slightly, surging back into you in a way that has your whole body rolling under him with the force of it. You groan, hands flexing on his body, your tongue pressing into the back of your front teeth, quelling the urge to call out how good it already feels.

Your walls cling to him as he sets a languid but perfect rhythm. Breathing each other's air, exploring damp skin, lips meeting repeatedly in loose, open-mouthed kisses. Once again, he grabs your hands and manoeuvres them above your head, holding you down, stretching your arms so your body cants up, your nipples grazing his chest.

“You have no idea how many times I've fantasised of this moment for so many years,” he rasps, making your breath hitch with his words and a change of angle that catches a new spot inside. “And yet, this is better,” he continues, dropping a kiss in your hair.

“Same,” you confess succinctly.

A triumphant crooked smile claims his face, and then he thrusts forcefully, wringing a loud moan from your lungs, your head smashing into the pillow as your hips tilt up in a silent request for more. Yearning for him to fuck you so hard that you feel a physical reminder; for your body to carry a tangible memory of it.

“You want more, don't you?” he intuits, pride colouring his tone.

“Yes,” you hiss, conscious he can read you effortlessly.

He snaps his hips in response, and you feel a tug deep inside where he nudges your hilt. It feels so good you gasp and fight to release your hands from above your head, desperate to grab his bum cheeks again and haul him deeper into you.

“Nuh-uh,” he chides bemused, shooting you a pointed look, “you do as I say, remember?”

You struggle underneath him, eyes blazing as you stare into his glassy pupils, telegraphing silently this is precisely what you want, making a show until you finally settle and curl your bottom lip under your teeth, nodding meekly as he restarts at a leisurely pace.

“Good girl.” He even winks.

Oh fucking hell.

Your pussy pulses around him, betraying how much you like that line.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he smirks, the smug, cocky persona he can slip into so easily fitting him like a glove. The ghost of Benedict-past rearing - that troublesome young playboy you recall from years ago.

He chuckles richly when you don’t give him the satisfaction of a verbal response, somehow the spectre of your younger, indignant self joining the party, too.

“Don’t forget: I can tell when you’re lying,” he murmurs into your jaw, still fucking you slow and thoroughly, sliding his lips down your neck, your collarbone, down to your nipple that he bites, making you cry out. “I know you of old…” he adds, pausing for you to catch the reference.

“Shakespeare…,” you stumble incredulously.

“Mmm hmm,” he confirms, tracing a teasing circle around your areola with the tip of his tongue.

“You quote Shakespeare while you fuck?!” your tone incredulous. “You don’t fight fair,”

He laughs again before silencing any retort you may have with another heated kiss, entwining your limbs, wrapping like a protective vine around you as he begins thrusting keenly. You move with him, uncaring how vocal you are, the need for more inexorable. You stare into each other's eyes as you move in perfect synchronism, faster and harder, grabbing flesh, whispered words and endless kisses. It’s never been quite like this before.

“Come for me again,” he pleads hotly, and you can see he is teetering close to the edge now, a little vein pulsing in his temple, his neck corded, a sheen over his body where his pace never wavers.

“So close,” you vow, needing just a little more friction to fall into that abyss again.

You groan as he grabs your hand and sucks your fingers into his hot mouth, swirling his tongue around them, then releases them with an obscene pop, guiding your wettened fingers between your bodies to the apex of your thighs, silently instructing you to touch yourself. Gasping and canting up into his body, your own slippery touch like a lightning rod on your clit. He growls as your pussy tightens around him responsively, feeling so huge as he ploughs into you.

Only a few flicks of your fingers and you are hurtling towards mindless bliss, eyes closing and body going taut, then snapping like a string as you peak, every fibre of your body fracturing as you call his name and constrict tight around his cock, fingernails leaving crescent shapes on his back as you float somewhere outside your body, mind blanking out in sheer pleasure.

Distantly, you hear him following you over, his grip almost punishing as he takes a few last frantic pumps, then stills, emptying deep inside, chanting your name into your neck as his whole body shudders and collapses on top of you.

As you flop back onto the mattress, your body sated, your thoughts race. Probably the best sex of your damn life. Even as he slides next to you, pulling you into his arms, your mind whirls until your scattered thoughts coalesce into one singular truth that makes you chew on your lip and frettingly stare at the ceiling - it was too good, too tender, too raw and honest for a first time. But all you want to do is repeat it. Over and over and over. Just never let him out of your bedroom. Except this is your best friend, and you have no bloody idea where you stand now.

Well… fuckity fuck.

Chapter 8: I’ve Changed My Mind, I Take It Back

Summary:

The fallout from the best night of your life was never going to be pretty…

Next day

The next morning, you watch silently, covers pulled up under your chin, as Benedict dresses—your stomach in an odd knot. It’s barely dawn, and you are both uncaffeinated, but still, it's the morning after the best sex of your life, and it’s awkward. And you don't know what to say to make it, well, unawkward.

“I have to go, stupid breakfast meeting about a gallery opportunity. But I'd like to see you later if you are free?” his tone is hedging as he sits on the end of the bed and pulls on his shoes.

“Err, sure. Dinner later?” you offer as he stands up and walks around to your side of the bed.

“Dinner sounds great,” he smiles with relief and leans in, placing a lingering kiss on your forehead.

You try not to wince, but a giant ball of something in the pit of your stomach wants to either push him away and make a joke, tell him to “knock it off, mate,” … or, much preferred, grab him by his stupid bloody shirt collar and give him a proper kiss, tongues and all. Haul him right back into your bed and ride him until you are both screaming.

He hovers over you, and your eyes meet, his dilating as if he reads where your thoughts slid, and with a sharp inhale, he pulls back and folds a lip under his teeth as if forbidding himself from taking action, too.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and nod your farewell, burrowing deeper under the duvet, not wanting to see him to the door, not wanting a more stilted goodbye than it already is. You both know there is a shit-ton you need to talk about, but neither of you is capable of the intellectual space to unpack it at 6:30 am on a Friday morning.

As you hear your front door snick closed, you take a deep breath and reach for your phone. To contact the only person who might even begin to understand how seismic this is.

—

“Holy shit!!” Kate shrieks, startling Anthony from his slumber.

“What?!? What is it?!?” he sits bolt upright, half-asleep but panicked, her tone causing bile to rise in his throat. Whatever it is has to be serious.

“It fucking happened!” she exclaims, clutching her phone to her chest, an almost maniacal grin claiming her beautiful features as she leans back against the headboard and kicks her feet up gleefully.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Anthony urges, anxiety rolling off him in waves.

She thrusts her phone towards him, and he snatches it, alarmed. There is a pause while he reads a text, and then he sighs, slumping his head into his hands.

“Kate,” he exhales, rubbing his eyes, “for fucks sake. I thought the world was bloody ending! Or at least someone had fucking died. Not that my brother had sex.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Kate retorts, taking back custody of her device and staring at him as if he is some alien creature. “Our best friends just fucked. HOW IS THAT NOT WORLD-CHANGING NEWS, VISCOUNT ANTHONY BRIDGERTON?!?”

Anthony slumps back onto his pillow with a huge sigh. “Okay, no need to whole name me. I thought you said it was bound to happen someday?” he stifles a yawn as he asks it.

“Yeah, so?! This is still huge news,” she argues, gesturing wildly, absolutely nonplussed by his total lack of reaction.

Anthony hums noncommittally, closing his eyes. Just then, his phone starts vibrating on his nightstand; the display lit up with a photo of his brother's drunken face.

“Is that him?! Get all the gossip!! I need deeeeeetails!!” Kate swats his bicep affectionately.

Anthony rolls his eyes and clicks the green button.

“No one I know would call at this hour,” he grouses in lieu of hello.

—

Benedict spends most of the ride in your building’s lift with his head pressed into the cold mirrored surface, eyes screwed shut, wondering if the world could swallow him up so he doesn’t have to think about anything. It takes every fibre of his willpower not to run back, fling your damn door open and bury himself inside you again. But that might make it weirder.

There's only one voice of reason he can think of.

“I know I'm sorry…” he replies abashedly to his brother's less-than-cheery greeting.

“So uhh, it happened, eh?” Anthony cuts to the chase, and Benedict realises you must have already contacted Kate. “How was it?”

“It was good. REALLY good. But then, this morning, it was like we didn't know what to say to each other. I just had to get out of there before I did something stupid like suggest we do it again. SHIT!! I have no idea what to do.”

“You want to come over for breakfast?” Anthony asks, then raises his eyes to a frantic Kate, making a cutting motion. Anthony can only surmise she has just offered the same to you.

“No, I'm not up to eating. I'm just going to get a coffee and a shower and try not to think about whether I've just fucked up the best friendship I've ever had…” he sighs.

Anthony shakes his head at Kate as she sighs in relief. “Listen, so maybe it didn't work out. It would have been great if it did, but…” Anthony shrugs and mouths, ‘What?’ at Kate, as she smacks his arm and gesticulates wildly.

“Hang up before you make it worse,” she growls as mutely as possible. Anthony knows better than to argue with that face. Last time, he ended up on the sofa for two nights.

“I've uh got to go, but we’ll talk later, okay?” Anthony offers.

“Sure,” Benedict trails off and hangs up.

“God….” Anthony flops onto the mattress, already disliking the day that has barely begun. “Tell me I will never have to be out there again,” he sighs, turning his head to look at Kate.

A beautiful smirk claims her face, and he is pleasantly surprised when she swings a leg over and straddles him, leaning in.

“Baby,” she breathes seductively into his ear, “you will never have to be out there again,” she adds silkily.

And suddenly, his morning is a thousand times better.

—

“It was a mistake,” you blurt out, unable to handle the silence any longer.

You have met Benedict for dinner at Pierre Victoire —something about their Beaujolais and Entrecote Steak et Frites just what you need to face this encounter; hence, it was your suggested spot. But you have barely exchanged a word since greeting each other.

A look of surprise briefly clouds his face, and then he agrees, perhaps a little too enthusiastically for your taste.

“I’m so glad you think so. I couldn’t agree more,” he gusts, a hand clamping over his heart in seeming relief at the break in tension. “I’m not saying it wasn’t great….,” he adds.

“It was,” you cut in, somehow needing him to know that more than anything.

He nods and continues, “It really was…we just should never have done it.”

“Agreed,” you chime in, mirroring his big exhale like a burden has been lifted.

“I’m so relieved,” he sighs as the waiter puts down your steaks.

And somehow, you are back to silence, unsure what else to say to each other. In fact, it stays like that for what feels like an age.

“It’s so nice to be able to sit with someone and not have to talk,” he opines at some point halfway through dinner.

All you can do is nod and take a huge gulp of wine.

Difficult, difficult, lemon, difficult.

—

“Okay, so most of the time when you sleep with someone new, you’re just getting to know each other; you have stories to tell,” you puff, feeling like you are dying.

Kate has dragged you to SoulCycle for a ‘fuckfest postmortem’ first thing the next day. It’s Saturday morning, and frankly, right now, you are wishing she was more of a Bellini-brunch-at-a-gastropub kind of person. She used to be; it's her drive to be ultra fit for her wedding that is at fault - it somehow now being a danger to your health.

“Sure…” she nods, looking enviably unsweaty and beautiful in her tiny lycra outfit.

“But with him, we know all of each other's stories already. So once we had sex, it was like we just didn’t know what else to say to each other,” you struggle out.

“Hmmm,” Kate hums distractedly, checking her Apple Watch.

“Maybe you get to a certain point in a relationship where it’s just too late to have sex, y’know?” you shrug, certain a coronary is about to happen. To the point, you are almost grateful when your shoe slips off the pedal and you fall to the floor in an undignified puddle.

Yup, that seems about right.

—

“Is she bringing anyone to the wedding?” Benedict asks, pulling on the brocade waistcoat handed to him by the kindly old gent.

“Really, you want to do this? Here? Now?” Anthony shoots back exasperated, gesturing pointedly to his full white-tie outfit.

It's three weeks after the ‘incident’, as they have taken to calling it, and the boys are getting suited up for the wedding at the same outfitters on Savile Row that the Bridgertons have been going to for generations. One of those old-fashioned wood-panelled places that doesn't even have a real sign outside.

“I was just asking…” he replies, defensive.

Anthony sighs. “She is seeing some software developer,” he admits, fiddling with some cufflinks. “I don't think it's that serious; Kate says he's not coming to the wedding.”

“What’s he like?” Benedict inquires, and Anthony wants to laugh at how badly he is masking his obvious jealousy with faux indifference.

“Rich, handsome, intelligent, athletic—your basic nightmare,” Anthony shrugs.

The sour face Benedict pulls tells him everything Anthony could ever want to know about just how bad his little brother has it.

—

BB: Miss you, Bluey.

It’s never a good idea to text at 1:30 a.m. Especially not someone you’ve been too embarrassed to contact for a month. And especially when you are pretty drunk and hiding in the toilets of a nightclub, avoiding your inebriated younger brother, Colin, on his birthday. Except here Benedict is, doing precisely that, chewing on his nail, awaiting a response.

Y/N: Bluey….?

Ah, shit.

In his drunken state, he temporarily forgot that’s a private nickname he’s given you. His lovely, little blue lobster. He doubts you even remember that FaceTime call all those months ago. He is trying to find a witty excuse when another message pops up.

Y/N: Miss you too, Nudey-face.

He barks a laugh, still entertained that you find his lack of a beard amusing, even though it's been nine months since he shaved it off.

Y/N: Don’t like that? I've got others…

BB: Oh, this ought to be good.

Y/N: Apple-guzzler
Y/N: Dance-ninja
Y/N: Half-assed-peeping-tom

He is giggling, something in his being so fizzy and light that you have slipped right back into your old ways of texting as if nothing happened.

Y/N: Duvet-hog

That last one makes his heart leap, and his chest constricts, memories of your magical night together flooding back. Something wistful tugging in his gut; the idea that you could have more nights of fantastic sex as well as this fun, playful dynamic he has missed so much. But then he recalls with a bitter taste that you have apparently moved on. Emboldened, he decides to tackle that elephant in the room, whiskey doing the typing as much as he is.

BB: I hear you might have a +1 for the wedding…?

The three dots appear twice over, but then nothing. After eight minutes - he counts - he sighs and slips his phone back into his pocket.

Ah, fuck.

—

You chew your lip. Guilt burning behind your ribs, even as you know it’s ridiculous to feel as such. Part of you feels a hollow victory that he was the one to reach out first, but you know it’s pure liquid courage. Kate texted an hour ago that she had dipped out of Colin’s party, leaving all the brothers worse for wear.

Twice you try to craft a response to his last message, simple then jokey, but both feel wrong. You decide it’s better to not respond. At least not at almost two in the morning with that possible plus one lying asleep next to you. It’s not even something you have broached with him, going to the wedding, and now you’re sure you don’t want him there. He’s nice, but you know it’s a rebound thing—an ego boost, a mildly pleasant distraction at most.

—

“Wear the fucking penises, you coward!” Kate slurs bossily, handing you the cheap plastic deeley boppers with glittery gold cocks.

You sigh. “Fine. But don’t blame me if they don’t let us into this place,” you grumble, tugging your coat tighter around your body and bouncing on your strappy-heeled sandals, trying to fight off the seasonal chill.

This is Kate's hen party weekend in Bath, and it’s not going as you’d planned. After the pampering spa day and fancy meal you had arranged as maid of honour, the evening has descended into debauchery. Her sister Edie had booked a male stripper who was almost traumatised by just how feral Kate turned after the vodka luge (also an Edie addition). Now you are all queued up outside some cheesy nightclub that wasn’t on the cards, but Kate insisted.

“How’s your fancy man?” Eloise asks, bumping you with her shoulder and winking.

“Meh,” you shrug noncommittally, unwilling to confess that you dumped him the morning after Benedict texted. “How’s the Bridgerton clan?”

Eloise pulls a face. “Colin and Pen are fucking too loudly. Hy had a new hobby, taxidermy. Yeah exactly. Greg is now into karate. Oh, and a friend is trying to put the moves on Ben. You know, the usual family ridiculousness…”

“Yeah?” You try to hide your acerbic reaction; part of you is desperate to know more, but another part never wants to hear anything about any woman he may be with.

“Yeah, she’s a baker.” Eloise continues, kicking a stone into the gutter. “She makes 3,000 trifles a week…”

“We’re in!!” Kate yells triumphantly as the bouncer unhooks the velvet rope in front of you.

“But Ben doesn’t even like custard….” you mutter, frowning, as unseen by you, all the girls exchange knowing looks before piling into the club.

—

“Eloise’s friend still hitting on you?” Colin leans in, smirking.

Anthony’s stag do is a paintballing weekend. Colin had lobbied hard for a sleazy weekend in Vilnius, but Anthony had baulked, far too scared of Kate’s reaction to that idea. So here they all are, being rained on and sitting in a muddy ditch somewhere in Berkshire.

“I don't know the polite way to say fuck off,” Benedict professes, screwing one eye shut to stare down the barrel of the rifle.

“Why not have some casual fun?” Colin shrugs, reloading his paintball gun.

“Because when I asked her what she was doing when Boris resigned, she said, ‘Oh, I don't know, was he your assistant or something?’” he deadpans, with a terrible impression, unable to hide his disgust at her ignorance.

“No!” Colin guffaws, disbelieving.

“Exactly…” Benedict retorts, but it morphs into a pained yelp as a paintball smacks heavily into his chest.

“You’re dead motherfucker!!!!” Anthony yells, materialising from nowhere, a Rambo-style headband and vest in place, camouflage streaked across his face, seemingly having the time of his life. He ducks and sprints away before anyone can retaliate.

“Aren't we on the same team?” Colin scowls wearily, watching his retreating figure darting between the trees.

“Yeah….” Benedict sighs, staring at the bright pink splotch and already feeling a bruise blooming on his sternum.

Just bloody great…

—

The wedding day. Kate looks beautiful. Aubrey Hall looks beautiful. The weather is beautiful—a crisp autumnal day with the trees at peak colour all over the grounds, golds and fiery reds glowing in the sunshine. It’s all too much, frankly.

Then, to top it all off, Benedict walks in wearing his custom-fitted best man’s outfit, and you almost trip over your damn feet, even standing entirely still. You haven’t seen him in person since that awkward dinner, and you quickly duck behind a pillar before he can spot you as he takes his place in the processional. It’s only when you reach the doorway that you realise he’ll be standing right next to Ant as you walk up the aisle alone.

I need wine… lots of wine…

His eyes bore into you as you take the slow, silly shuffle that you are required to. A weight on your being that seems to slice through right you, and the claret red silk you wear. You feel you deserve a medal when you make it without stumbling on your heels. You shake your shoulders fractionally as you take your place facing him, a frisson in your spine that feels dangerous.

‘You look beautiful,’ he seems to mouth as the bridal procession pipes up while everyone else’s attention cuts to the doorway. And fuck do you wish he were either a thousand miles away or less than an inch from you, his breath ghosting warm over your skin….

—

The reception is in full swing, the band playing and people dancing when a familiar scent that makes your heart leap fills your nostrils.

“Hi…” it's soft, almost hesitant, as he pulls up beside you.

“Hello…” you try to modulate to casual, but it probably comes off as mildly haughty.

“Beautiful ceremony,” he offers, both of your eyes tracking Kate and Anthony as they dance, blissfully absorbed in each other, radiating joy.

“It was,” you concur politely.

A waiter materialises with a tray of canapes, and you take one, but you don't eat it; just spin the skewer in your hand. Something to fiddle with to deal with the discomfort.

God, I miss the way we used to be…

“How have you been?” you ask a little stiffly.

“Fine,” he offers, and you can tell from a mere sideways glance that he’s lying.

“Why can’t we get past this? This awkwardness. Are we going to carry this around forever??” you blurt out. It's exasperation, not words you have thought carefully about, just a knee-jerk response to your own frustration about how weird things are compared to how they used to be.

“Forever?! It just happened!” he exclaims, his hands gesturing in frustration.

Seeing that you are drawing the attention of people nearby, you spin around and walk out of the room. If this is all going to come out now, which apparently your brain has decided it will, you prefer it not to be witnessed by friends and family. Or be a talking point at your best friend's wedding.

“It happened five weeks ago!” you argue over your shoulder as you stalk down a narrow hallway beyond where the guests are mingling. You know that is not a long time in the grand scheme of things, but feeling the need to argue your corner.

“Yeah, well, you must live in dog years cos it sure as fuck didn't take you very long to find someone else. Obviously, it meant nothing to you,” he spits out, a world of hurt behind the spite in his tone.

You stop dead and spin around, an ache in your chest that is pure indignance mixed with self-hatred for how right he is. He can always hit the bullseye every bloody time when it comes to knowing you better than you know yourself. That fling was a classic rebound, an outlet for your frustrations. Moreover, a distraction from letting yourself spiral about how petrified you are that things will never be the same between you and Benedict and how you feel utterly powerless to fix it, even if you can never bring yourself to regret it. It was too spectacular for that.

“Meant nothing to me?!” you hiss, having to temper your urge to scream. “Really?! You are the one who left! That very next morning, you couldn't wait to get out of there. Who the fuck has a breakfast meeting about art? You are such a liar and a coward!”’ you raise your voice, all your emotions about it finally bubbling over.

“I didn't walk out!” he argues, frowning.

“No, sprinted is more like it!” you bite back bitterly, then turn your heel again, furiously tossing your untouched canape into the first rubbish bin you see.

You flounce down a stone staircase at the back of Aubrey Hall, his footsteps loud behind you, ending up in the kitchens, bustling with catering people.

“We both agreed it was a mistake!” he points out angrily.

“Worst mistake I ever made!” you hurl at him, uncaring of the catering staff around you, watching you both as if a soap opera, eyes pinging back and forth like it's a damn tennis match.

“What do you want from me?” he asks, holding his hands up.

“I don't want anything from you!” you lie, wanting to throw yourself at him. He looks so good in his crisp, tailed suit that it takes every effort not to.

“Let's clear something up,” he starts, jabbing his finger pointedly at the ground to his side. “I did not come over that night to make love to you. That is not why I came over. I came over to look after a friend, you asked me to. But you came onto me, and it took every ounce of my being to say no. You were drunk and emotional; I couldn't take advantage like that. But then, when you sobered up, you looked at me with those big, soft eyes and kissed me. And for fucks sake. What was I supposed to do?! I am only human…” you are transfixed by the vein pulsing in his neck and hate yourself for just how aroused you are by it, by this, by this argument, this fire between you.

“What are you saying?!? That I was a pity fuck?!”

You know full well that is not what he's saying at all, but you just can’t help but poke the proverbial beast. Wanting to goad him into something. Ideally, kissing you senseless.

“There you are!!!”

You both turn around to see Anthony in the doorway, well, more accurately, leaning heavily on the doorframe, apparently quite tipsy. You have no idea how much he may have overheard. “I've been looking all over for you shits. Kate is mad you disappeared. Sent me off to find you. Ooh, I did it. I’ll get an excellent husband gold star, won't I?” he perks with a triumphant arm raise, and you realise he's probably had a lot of champagne and no food.

Both you and Benedict exchange looks, knowing your window of opportunity to hash this out just slammed shut.

Benedict wraps an arm around his sibling’s shoulder. “Come on then, brother. Can't keep the bride waiting. Let's go,” he accommodates, steering them towards the steps with a glance back at you that is weighted.

You trail behind as they walk back to the reception, lingering so you are not drawn into any conversation. By the time you enter the room, Anthony is back at Kate’s side as she is making a toast to the crowd. Benedict is still hovering near the door off to the side, almost as if waiting for you.

“Everybody, I'd like to make a toast to our maid of honour and best man. To y/n and Benedict,” she raises her glass towards you, and everyone turns to see you both standing awkwardly about six feet apart. “If Anthony or I found either one of them remotely attractive, we would not be here today. So thank you!”

The crowd laughs along good-naturedly, and all raise their glasses to you. Kate tilts her head sideways with that beautiful but shit-eating grin she uses when stirring up trouble before taking a swig, staring at you challengingly. Almost as if she can read exactly what has just transpired, or maybe Anthony told her something of what he saw. Either way, You can feel Benedict's eyes on you as you attempt bemusement at her toast and nod with a brittle smile.

Just fucking great…

Chapter 9: Nobody Else Gave Me A Thrill

Summary:

You two finally figure it all out on New Year’s Eve…

Notes:

There will be a short epilogue for this fic, probably posting tomorrow

One month later

For the next few weeks, the dreary weather, the clocks changing, and the chilly nights drawing in match your sullen mood. Your argument with Benedict at the wedding made you so sad but resolute to try and put it behind you.

It's the last weekend in November when you are buying a Christmas tree that you feel the worst. Making a mess of dragging the tree back to your place alone, leaving a trail of needles behind you, you stop halfway and slump onto a doorstep. Recalling with perfect clarity how you and Benedict had bought one together from the same man the previous year, laughing carefree as you easily carried it between you. Then you drank mulled wine as you haphazardly threw on lights and ornaments, dancing to cheesy Christmas songs. It's what you miss the most—his companionship, the ease of time spent with one of your favourite people.

Just as you are wrestling the tree through your front door, exhausted, sweaty and prickled by a thousand tiny shitty needles that seem to have it out for you, your phone pings with a message.

BB: I'm sorry for how things ended at the wedding. I've been thinking about it for weeks now. Please call me. I want to talk.

Pride (and your current disastrous had-a-fight-with-a-tree-and-lost appearance) stops you from doing what you genuinely want to—picking up your phone and Facetiming him to sort it all out.

Not ready yet.

__

Two weeks later, it's mid-December, and you are sitting cross-legged on your living room floor with a big glass of wine, wrapping presents for friends, when your phone pings again. For a while now, almost every day, he has been sending links to Insta posts with adorable and hilarious content. Each of which you have enjoyed but couldn't bring yourself to reply to. This time, it’s a message.

BB: If you are available at the moment, please call me.

You stare at the little pop-up notification and take a gulp, a weird weight in your chest at the idea you might cave this time. Perhaps. Once you are done wrapping this gift. A few minutes later, your phone pings again.

BB: Okay, I assume no call means:
BB: (A) you can't take a call right now
BB: (B) you can, but you don't want to talk to me or
BB: (C) you desperately do want to talk to me but are trapped under something heavy
BB: If it's A or C, please call me back later, doesn't matter what time
BB: Also, if it’s C, please call 999 if you are in danger, then call me after. I don't have any heavy-lifting equipment…

You can't help but giggle at his gentle, silly humour, attempting to diffuse the tension. A large part of you wants to call; you even have the phone in your hand, but at the last minute, you rest it against your forehead with a sigh, something stopping you. Your stupid rebound fling being the biggest one, Benedict’s cutting remark about how quickly you let someone else into your bed, making your stomach roil.

Still not ready yet.

—

“Obviously, she doesn't want to speak to me,” Benedict laments, his words muffled into a scatter cushion on Kate and Anthony’s sofa.

It's the morning after they've returned from honeymoon, three days before Christmas. While they are thankful Benedict popped over with some basics to make breakfast, they could do without his melancholy—they’re much more about a ‘let’s have newlywed sex on the kitchen table’ vibe.

“What do I have to do? Get hit over the head? Be in some calamitous accident?” Benedict whines, twisting his head in aggravation as if trying to burrow himself head-first into the furniture.

‘What do we do?’ Anthony mouths to Kate, who throws her hands up defeatedly.

‘How should I know?’ she mouths back, frowning. ‘He's your brother.’

‘Your friend's fault,’ Anthony shoots back.

Kate crosses her arms and gets a look like a sour lemon, and he instantly regrets that line.

Benedict lifts his head to look up at them, and she has to stifle a giggle behind her hand at the deep red imprint of the cushion zipper on his forehead.

“If she wants to talk to me. She will call me back, right? I'm done with making an idiot of myself….” Benedict claims boldly.

__

You are sitting on the sofa at your childhood home early evening on Christmas Day, almost disgustingly full of Baileys (your mum's tipple of choice on this day) and Christmas pud, watching The Wrong Trousers - a family tradition - when your phone pings with a message.

It's from Benedict and your stomach vaults. You honestly thought after more than a week of silence, he had given up trying. And part of you was so sad. There is no text this time, just a video attachment. You excuse yourself to the downstairs cloakroom, taking a seat on the closed lid of the toilet, intrigued as to what it is.

The video starts with him looking directly into the camera, his handsome face filling the frame and making your stomach swoop again. Fuck, you have missed seeing it.

“Merry Christmas y/n. I hope you are having a nice time. I miss you, and I hate how we left things,” he opens honestly, “and when Bridgertons don't know what to do, we always act stupidly. It's our ‘thing’. So here, You can blame this on my genetics...”

The video cuts to black briefly and then fades into him, a huge 6ft lump, crowded behind a plastic toy piano on the floor, probably one of Daphne’s kids' toys. You instantly giggle at the ridiculous visual as he apes a maestro, closes his eyes as if about to play Chopin, and flexes his hands. Then, the tinny, electric sound of some familiar notes being played hesitantly begins. He isn't exactly a natural pianist.

“Hey, I didn't just meet you, And this is crazy,
You know my number, So call me maybe,
It's hard to feel right without you, lady
You know my number, so call me, maybe…”

You are instantly laughing. He's such an adorable, charming idiot. Sitting behind a miniature plastic piano and playing, half in earnest, half in jest. At least his voice can hold a semi-decent tune. It brings an affectionate mist to your eyes even as it continues…

“Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad
I missed you so bad; I missed you so, so bad
Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad
And you should know that, I miss you now… so, so bad….”

For the last few words, he slows down the song and looks directly down the lens pointedly.

Something in his pleading look is the straw that breaks the camel's back proverbially, and with a slight tremor in your hand, you scroll to his name and hit the FaceTime button before you can think twice about it. The sound of the tone, as it rings, feels so loud, and each crisp ‘bringggg’ makes your nerves jangle. Just as you are about to hang up, the call connects.

“I'm sorry it took me so long to answer. I had to find a private spot.” he sounds a little winded.

“Where are you?” you frown, an unfamiliar background behind him.

“My childhood bedroom. Aubrey Hall.”

“Oh my god! Show me!” You enthuse, your initial equivocation derailed by nosiness, which you decide to frame instead in your mind as mere curiosity. You never got to see it the wedding weekend for, well, reasons you don't want to dwell on right now.

He quickly flips the camera around, giving you an audio-guided tour of the room he grew up in. Dark blue walls with framed posters for his beloved Blur alongside Travis, Radiohead and Shaun of the Dead. Silly stick-on glow-in-the-dark stars on the high ceiling that are likely too high for anyone to bother getting out a ladder and peeling off. Shelves with little wooden car models he made with his dad before he died, mixed in with certificates of achievement from school, shiny brass archery trophies, and his early sketches in those cheap snap-in frames. And lastly, a collection of jagged small rocks and colourful pebbles. It makes you feel so very affectionate for little teenage Benedict.

“You are bloody adorable!” you blurt out, almost forgetting all the awkwardness from the past few weeks.

The camera flips around, and his lopsided grin fills the screen. “Thank you. I try to make a habit of it…”

You smile back and then sigh. “I’ve missed this,” you confess quietly, wistfully.

“I’ve missed this too. You. Us. Can we please be friends again? Please? I know we both have a lot of things to talk about. With that night and all… but… can we reset? I need you, Bluey. I am miserable without my best friend,” he pouts, his raw honesty making your chest ache.

It’s exactly how you feel, too. Except with a massive pang of regret that he seems to want to forget your magical night together. Sex is never like that, at least not for you—electric and addictive. Doing a reset to save your friendship feels like the most logical step. Still, it doesn’t stop the “what if” fantasies running in your head with increasing frequency, especially on a day like today—nostalgia, sentiment and overindulgence swirling in your being.

“I would like us to be friends again,” you exhale, a lie by slight omission, drumming your fingertips on your cheek nervously to stop you from saying more.

“Wonderful! Then it is so! I can’t wait to see you again! Are you going to the New Year's party? The one Simon & Daph are hosting at the Sky Terrace? Cos if you are, I was wondering, if you don’t have a date if we could go together? We always said we would be each other's plus one if neither of us is with anyone…”

That he wants to completely reset to that world makes your heart crack. You want to scream at him, ‘No! I want to be your real date! Pick me, for real, this time!’

“I… can’t do that,” you waver, and it comes off sounding tired.

“You have a date?” It’s soft, hesitant, trepidatious.

“No…” you admit, “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to go together like that. I… I can’t be your consolation prize anymore, Benedict,” you blurt out, the hurt taking over your tongue.

The look of stunned surprise on his face makes it worse. As if he had never even seen it from that perspective.

“That’s not what I….” he begins but is interrupted by a loud door bang as it slams into the wall and a yelling voice.

“Stop fucking hiding and get your bloody arse back downstairs. You can’t miss family dinner on Christmas Day!” Colin scolds loudly offscreen.

“I’ve got to go…,” he sighs reluctantly as an arm manhandles him up and off the bed. “Merry Christmas,” he adds, belatedly realising you both forgot to say it earlier on the call.

“Whoever it is, hang up. No one is more important than family on Christmas,” Colin gripes. “That’s it, I’m taking your phone…”.

The screen is filled with random shapes and loud noises as they seem to wrestle like children. And then the call suddenly disconnects.

You sigh and tip sideways against the cold tile of your parents' cloakroom wall.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

__

Benedict takes stock of his surroundings. December 31st, 11:00pm, lying on his stomach on his sectional chaise, staring up at the big flatscreen on his wall.

This isn't so bad… he tries to convince himself. I've got Jools Holland’s Hootenanny - the only decent New Year's programme, some Glenfiddich and Mini Cheddars - the best snack there is…

He sighs and realises how pathetic he sounds, even in his own mind, alone in an empty flat.

__

The man whirls you around, and you are almost thrown straight into Kate and Anthony.

“I should never have let you drag me to this,” you grouse so only they can hear.

They both shoot you an apologetic look until you are whipped away again. This man’s dancing style is more akin to a waltzer amusement ride than anything sensual or fun. Your shoulder is already aching. It's a far cry from the surprising salsa Benedict pulled out of the bag last New Year’s Eve. And the idle thought of him has you spiralling…

“Mind if we stop?” you puff as the band finishes the song with a flourish. He’s some slick European investment banking type, and really, you couldn't give two shits about offending him, merely your ingrained politeness kicking in.

He nods and goes off to grab drinks as you stand, hands on hips, trying to gather your breath as you watch all the people moving like a mass of limbs on the crowded dancefloor as the following number begins.

Why the fuck am I here?

__

This is much better… Benedict rationalises to himself as he wanders down the rainy, empty East London streets not far from his Hoxton pad. Who needs to be at a big, crowded party pretending to have a good time?

He pauses outside a trendy shop on Old St, selling overpriced crap that he's not even sure what it is.

See? I can do some window shopping. He tells himself silently—clutching at anything to distract himself from the creeping sense of dread in his gut. A slow twisting knife as he thinks about you dancing the night away, ringing in the New Year with some fancy, handsome man who definitely doesn't deserve you.

What does it matter to me? We are just friends. Best friends… the only friend I ever want to see every day… the only one who truly matters….

He has thought about how to repair the damage between you so much over the last few weeks that he's exhausted himself. Really, he just wants you back. All of you, ideally, but being realistic, any part of yourself you will let back into his life. The suggestion of a reset he made on Christmas Day being his cowardly way out.

—

You are fake laughing at the banker’s story as you lean around the pillar you are backing yourself against in an attempt to secure more personal space. Glad of the heated lamps and the glass overhang to shelter from the drizzle.

“I'm going home,” you growl.

“You’ll never find an Uber,” Kate points out deadpans as you turn back around and keep faking amusement.

__

Just as his thoughts spiral, Benedict hears a chuckle on the other side of the road. There, a couple are laughing together, wrapped in each other's arms, kissing, looking like no one else in the world matters… and it’s like a lightning rod hits him square in the chest.

Suddenly, all he can see are images of you, fluttering like motioned-filled playing cards from above, swirling into his eyeline, then floating onto the glistening pavement around him. Vignettes of his life and where you intersect at so many pivotal moments. The day he left uni - the car ride where you bickered like an old married couple, the day he moved to Paris - your dilated pupils and hitched breath on the Eurostar when he whispered in your ear, the unerring sympathy when you heard about his divorce, the way you held his hand when you wandered after dinner somewhere (he doesn't even recall where… only that it was with you), watching movies together on FaceTime, your incredulity when he confessed to his uneventful recurring sex dream, your surprise and, yes, arousal as he led you in the salsa dance, the way you tucked so neatly into his arms haunting him. And finally, how it felt to be buried inside your gorgeous body as you clung to him, calling his name like a siren song, intimacy like he has never known, the profundity of the connection petrifying the very life out of him.

But as he stares down at his tatty old Converse, the same ones he wore the day you met, in fact, all he sees in the puddle beneath him is the simple truth he has been in denial about, possibly for a decade or more. Rippling refractions of your face - your knowing smile, bright eyes, your wonderful, happy expression…

And before his brain acknowledges it, his feet are moving….

Walking fast…

Then it’s a jog…

Then it’s a run….

.. his feet carrying him to the one place he knows with every fibre of his being he wants to be.

—

You wander as if in a daze, seemingly surrounded by nothing but couples, kissing, dancing, whispering, and it's the final straw. You spy Kate and Anthony sipping champagne together and slope over.

“I'm going,” you sigh.

“But it's almost midnight,” Anthony protests.

“Being surrounded by people kissing is just…” you shrug, melancholy creeping in like a clingy fog around your heart.

“I’ll kiss you,” Kate placates, and Anthony perks up to no end at that suggestion, nodding enthusiastically as you both roll your eyes, bemused. “Stay? Please?” she pleads, pouting and grabbing your hands.

“Thanks, Kate. But no. I have to go. Have a wonderful night,” you bid them, kissing her gently on the cheek. “Happy New Year,” you whisper as she returns the greeting.

__

Benedict's lungs are burning as he races down Old St towards Shoreditch, not far from where you celebrated last year. He ignores the ache in his muscles and keeps going, checking his watch to see 11:56pm and racing harder.

I need to be there at midnight!

__

As you walk to pick up your coat, a sight makes your heart leap into your mouth and stops you dead in your tracks.

There, rounding the top stair, casual in old faded jeans, those ancient Converse and a chunky knit jumper… is Benedict. Hair fluffy and dishevelled from the rain, out of breath and scanning the crowd desperately. As if he is seeking someone.

Then his eyes finally land on you, and your world tilts.

Oh god, is he here… for… me?!?

Then he is striding purposefully towards you, and it seems like the crowds part. His eyes blisteringly intense, like they were on that fateful night. You try to school your face, aiming for casual indignance; you probably fail spectacularly— your heart thumping wildly.

“I've been doing a lot of thinking…” he begins as he pulls up before you. “And the thing is… I love you..”

Everything grinds to a halt, and your head feels dizzy.

This must be a prank, surely?

“What?” you stutter, disbelief rocking your core.

“I love you,” he says with a simple shrug as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“Ben.. I… what do you expect me to say?” you blurt out, floored.

“How about you love me too,” he smiles a tiny fraction, and you hate it.

You hate how RIGHT he is. Your body is a total jumble of live wires, but your mind is suddenly calm. It's like the clouds of your thoughts part, and it all seems crystal clear. And yet, something in your stubborn heart won't let you admit it. Terrified what it could mean to voice it.

“Look, Ben, I know it's New Year, and I know you may be lonely tonight. But please don't do this,” you implore haltingly, tears prickling hot in the corners of your eyes, “...not like this,” you whisper, defeated.

“Okay, how about like this….” he throws his hands up. “I love that you won't admit you love me. I love that you are looking at me like you want to kill me right now. I love that my body is screaming at me cos I ran here as fast as I could.” he gestures down at his slightly shaky legs.

“Ten seconds to New Year's!!” a loud voice blares out over the speakers.

“TEN!!” the crowd chants.

“I love that we are idiots who would never admit to how in love we are.”

“NINE!”

“I love that you are my blue lobster, rare and beautiful as a diamond but a delicious soft treat under that hard as nails shell….”

“EIGHT!”

He tilts your chin to look up at him, a thumb swiping a tear you didn't even know had escaped.

“SEVEN!”

“Don't leave me out here in the wind, y/n…,” he murmurs softly.

“SIX!”

“I… I love that you never give up,” you whisper so quietly even you can barely hear it.

The smile that lights up Benedict’s face makes your whole being feel like the stars live inside your chest.

“FIVE!”

“I love that you take homemade salads on a road trip,” he smirks playfully, referring to the first day you spent together all those years ago.

“FOUR!”

“I love that you kept your amazing dance prowess under wraps,” you laugh over a stilted snuffle, everything in you fizzling.

“THREE!”

“I love that I can still smell you on my clothes after we spend the day together,” he sighs, moving in closer, your eyes hypnotised by the movement of his cupid’s bow.

“TWO!”

“I love that you came here tonight,” you admit, your hands circling his forearms as you sway slightly in unison.

“ONE!”

“I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night,” he confesses, his lips ghosting over yours now, smiling crookedly even as he speaks.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!” the crowd chants.

All around you, party poppers go off, colourful ribbons of streamers, and the sound of glasses clinking fills the air. But it’s background noise, your whole focus on each other.

Finally, your lips meet, the fireworks under your ribs matching those in the skies above, the same as it was that first time weeks ago. You melt into each other's embrace, your kiss a seal of a pact and the promise of something new and infinite.

“For the record,” he rumbles, his minty breath hot on your lips, the strains of Auld Lang Syne ringing around the rooftop. “I'm not saying this because I’m lonely and not because it’s the New Year. I came here tonight because when you finally realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start…”

“...as soon as possible,” you exhale, completing his sentence with him as he nods, grinning from ear to ear.

The drunken chorus around you gets louder; he chuckles and shakes his head. “I’ve never understood this stupid song.”

“I think it’s about remembering not to forget. Or not forgetting to remember. Or something,” you peal a laugh, knowing you are talking gibberish and not giving a damn. “Anyway, it’s about old friends,” you add pointedly, moving in for another spine-tingling, heart-melting kiss.

As you part, he cradles your jaw in his hands. “It was only ever you, y/n,” he sighs, hazy eyes burning into yours, his whisper fervent but contented into your skin. “It had to be you.”

Chapter 10: Epilogue: Wonderful You

Summary:

How would you sum up your love story?

Four months later

When his phone lights up and vibrates on the pillow next to yours for the third time, the name HY flashing bright, you reluctantly realise you have to say something.

You slide one hand down under the covers to shake his shoulder lightly. “Ben…. Ben, your phone…” you stutter, not wanting to do anything to stop the wondrous sensations coursing through your body, but concern overrides your want for pleasure.

“I'm doing some of my best work here, you know…” he protests silkily, muffled against your body, curling his tongue around your clit in a way that makes your knees tremble and goosebumps break out over your limbs.

“Ngggg, fuck, I know you are, baby,” you moan, “but this is the third time it’s ringing, and now you’ve got a big text pop-up saying SOS…” you stumble out.

There is a rustling of sheets, and his handsome face appears, glistening with your arousal in the ray of Mediterranean sun that cuts across the bed.

“Whoever is interrupting us better have a damn good reason; they all know this is our honeymoon,” he grumbles, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and crawling up over you, pecking a kiss onto the tip of your nose before reaching for his phone. As he does, it starts vibrating in his hand again.

“What?” he answers gruffly, in the way only siblings ever greet each other.

You watch as he pulls a variety of faces that make you giggle, pinned under him, his erection pressed distractingly into your left thigh.

“Hy…,” he groans after a bit, dropping his forehead onto your sternum. “How does any of this constitute an SOS?” he sighs wearily.

You can tell her answer is sarcastic by the strains of voice you hear from the phone as it's pressed against his ear.

“The answer, I'm sure, is yes, we will, and now, will you please leave us alone? We are busy…” he says pointedly. “...That's entirely none of your business,” he adds curtly after a beat.

You can easily surmise she guessed precisely what you are doing, and you chuckle. Benedict tilts his head up and shoots you a laden smirk that has you scraping your nails over the nape of his neck and into his luscious, thick hair, canting your body up into him and mewling softly as a hint.

“I'm hanging up now…” he warns, appearing to do just that as his little sister is midsentence.

“What does she want us to do?” you query, turning your head to kiss the flexing bicep that carries his weight as he tosses his phone aside.

He shuffles lower, his lips closing around your nipple, sucking insistently, making you arch under him and gasp.

“She wants us to appear in some documentary she is making,” he explains laconically, his fingers wrapping around the dip of your waist as his breath ghosts warm over the saliva he left, pursing his lips and blowing gently, watching your areola pucker under his attention.

You are rapidly losing the ability to give a shit in this moment but decide to get a little more information before you succumb. “What sort of documentary?”

“Couples talking to camera about their love story,” he hums, swapping to give your other breast the same wonderful treatment.

“She wants our story?” you frown distractedly, slightly non-plussed, running your fingertips along the play of his back muscles as he moves.

“Oh, come on darling, even you have to admit it reads like a film script,” he chuckles, rubbing the tip of his nose over the swell of your breast. “Twelve years, broken relationships, friends, not friends, both of us being idiots for entirely too long…” he trails off as he begins to wind his way back down your body, dropping hot kisses onto your diaphragm and belly.

“Oi,” you protest weakly, “I was not an idiot; I was merely cautious…”

“Sure, my love, a cautious idiot,” he amends, pushing your thighs open around his shoulders unseen under the sheets.

“Fair point…” you concede before crying out as he once again unfurls that magical tongue.

—

“How many couples are you interviewing for this?” you ask as Hyacinth fiddles with a microphone that will be out of shot on the coffee table in front of you.

It is three weeks later, and you are sitting on a two-seater sofa in a nondescript warehouse somewhere in Ealing—a digital camera and lots of bright lights trained on you. It all feels slightly unnerving, making you nervously pick at a tiny fleck of lint on your trousers.

“Oh, about ten or twelve, all sorts of ages and backgrounds,” she elucidates, obviously proud of what she is pulling together for her graduate film project.

“Why did you want us?” you inquire, genuinely intrigued.

“Well, your story is bloody fascinating, and I wanted to have at least one love story from my own family,” she explains. “I tried Kate and Anthony, but they bickered the whole time about what the truth of their story is. Then they started the tonsil tennis. It was too weird, even for me,” she shrugs.

“What do you want us to say?” Benedict checks, attempting to smooth his wayward curl of forehead hair that is always there, doing its own thing.

“Just go with the flow. Be truthful. Say whatever comes to mind; we can always go again,” she answers somewhat nebulously, rounding behind the camera as you exchange uncertain looks. “And ACTION!!” she calls suddenly.

“The first time we met, we hated each other,” Benedict begins.

“No,” you immediately interject, “you didn’t hate me; I hated you. The second time we met, you didn't even remember me!” you argue.

“I did, too! I remembered you! I approached you on the train,” he points out. “The third time we met, we became friends,” he smiles, wrapping a hand around your knee and shooting you a loving glance.

“We were friends for a long time,” you adjoin, nodding, before adding honestly, “Aaaaand then we weren't.”

“And then we fell in love,” Benedict drawls, his tone laden with affection. “Three months later, and we are married!” he holds up his left hand, proudly displaying his shiny new wedding ring.

“It only took three months,” you nod in agreement, then pause, “well… twelve years and three months…”

“We had a really wonderful wedding,” he comments, turning and smiling crookedly at you.

“It really was,” you agree, grinning back.

“It was great. We had a band with salsa dancing,” he explains, leaning into you fractionally.

“Yes, lots of salsa dancing,” you concur, hooking your chin onto his shoulder as he turns his head fully toward you, you matching his little knowing smile, wanting nothing more than to draw him into a kiss.

“Ok… CUT!!” Hyacinth calls.

“What was wrong with that?” he checks, reluctantly peeling his gaze from you to his sister.

“Urgh, you are as bad as Anthony,” she rolls her eyes. “Let's try again, but this time, you know, maybe a bit more story and a shade less mushy?” she suggests.

“Mushy?” Benedict echoes, his brow knitting. “How am I supposed to talk about my wife, the love of my life, and not be ‘mushy’?” he appends with air quotes, as if what he just said casually is not the sweetest thing ever… and makes you want to mount him instantly.

“Y/n, stop eye-fucking my brother,” Hyacinth sighs.

It’s your turn to whip around to her and look indignant. “I am not!”

“Please…” she withers, arching a single eyebrow, and you slouch down a little, realising you are being entirely called out.

“Okay, fine. But tell him to stop doing the same,” you mumble.

“Believe me, I’m trying,” she answers, fiddling with one of the lamps trained on you. “Now okay from the top,” she says. “I liked it until you got to the salsa dancing bit. Please, let's not cover that; it's obviously a trigger topic for both of your hormones,” she eye rolls.

“What do you want us to talk about then?” he shrugs.

“Tell me more about the very first day you met,” she proposes, then circles her finger silently to show she’s recording again.

“So it's the last day of university in the depths of Scotland, and both of us are driving to London...” he starts.

“Excuse me, I was driving my car to London; you very much hitched a ride,” you interrupt again.

“Please, it was your mum’s car. And you refused to give me a Malteser,” he disputes, pouting at you.

“Really? It's been twelve years. And still with the Malteser thing? You could have brought your own, you know,” you remonstrate logically.

“And you could have tried not to make me crash into a bus shelter, but here we are…,” he argues back, shooting you a sideways look that is all challenge and heat—it makes you want to strip him bare.

You can't help it; you lean in and capture his lips this time.

“For fuck’s sake, not these two as well,” Hyacinth mutters, head slumping into her hands.

Notes:

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