Chapter Text
There was no better way to start a morning than with coffee, a warm breeze, and the steady thump-thump-thump of a golden retriever’s tail against the side of a park bench.
At least, that was Sophie Baek’s theory. And like most of her theories, she’d tested it repeatedly and collected plenty of data to back it up.
Nine months ago, she’d brought home Apollo. At the time, everyone in her life had said the same thing: Puppies are a nightmare, Sophie. Don’t do it. She had ignored them. Not because she was reckless, she wasn’t, but because she’d always, always wanted a golden retriever. As a little girl, she’d begged her father for one but her step mother wouldn’t allow it. She’d read library books about them, drawn them in the margins of her school notebooks, even named an entire lineup of stuffed animals after constellations until finally, she could afford one herself.
Apollo wasn’t just a golden retriever. He was her golden retriever. Floppy-eared, sunshine-furred, and with a nose that was forever finding trouble. He had a way of plopping down at her feet with such complete, unguarded trust that Sophie sometimes thought he’d saved her, rather than the other way around.
She sipped her coffee, pop holding the paper cup with both hands as Apollo sprawled across her sneakers, tongue lolling.
“Don’t give me that look,” she told him when he glanced up with those imploring eyes. “You already had breakfast. Twice. Just because you found a stray bit of toast yesterday doesn’t mean it’s part of your routine now.”
His tail swept the ground once, twice, like he understood every word and disagreed. Sophie rolled her eyes and shifted on the bench, watching the early morning bustle of Hyde Park. London at this hour was her favourite, before the crowds arrived, when the sun was still lazy and the air smelled faintly of grass and river.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Work email, probably. She didn’t check. Numbers and spreadsheets could wait until nine o’clock. This hour belonged to Apollo and the quiet.
She leaned back, letting her gaze wander over the park. A few joggers passed by, a cyclist swerved neatly around them, and an old man scattered crumbs for pigeons. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Which was exactly how she liked it.
Her dating history had been anything but ordinary, and not in the good, romcom way. It was more… a series of minor disasters. The last boy she’d let in had laughed when she admitted she spent Saturday nights baking lemon drizzle cake “just for fun.” Another had once told her, after three months, that she was “too serious about math” for him, as though her degree in it had been some sort of accident. After that, she’d sworn off the whole business.
Love, in her book, was like an unsolved equation: appealing in theory, but a waste of time when you already knew the outcome was disappointment.
Dogs, though? Dogs didn’t lie. Dogs didn’t mock you for your hobbies or vanish without warning. Dogs were steady, affectionate, gloriously predictable. Dogs, specifically golden retrievers, were love, loyalty, and laughter all rolled into one golden-furred package.
Apollo nudged her knee with his wet nose, snapping her out of her thoughts.
“Yes, I know, you’re the best,” she murmured, ruffling his ears. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
A jogger passed, tossing them a smile, but Sophie hardly noticed. Her focus was on Apollo, on the way his tail wagged like metronome ticks, steady and sure. She pulled out her phone, not to check work, but to snap a quick photo of him. Her gallery was ninety percent Apollo anyway: Apollo asleep, Apollo with his toy fox, Apollo after a bath looking like a drowned mop. She’d never get tired of it.
“Model behaviour,” she whispered, angling for the best shot.
That was when a flash of gold appeared in her peripheral vision.
Another golden retriever.
Sophie blinked, lowering her phone. This one was nearly the same size as Apollo but slimmer, her coat a paler cream. She trotted forward with curious confidence, eyes fixed on Apollo like she’d just found her long-lost twin.
Apollo’s tail thumped wildly, and Sophie frowned, glancing around.
“Where did you come from?” she murmured, half to herself, half to the newcomer who was already nose-to-nose with her dog as if they’d arranged the meeting.
Benedict Bridgerton had been many things in his twenty-four years; a son, brother, reluctant charmer, failed boyfriend more times than he cared to count, but he had never, not once, been a dog person.
Until Calliope.
He blamed his brothers entirely.
“Mate, you need something stable in your life,” Anthony had declared after Benedict’s fourth breakup in less than a year. “A dog won’t ghost you.”
Colin had added, with that infuriating grin: “Plus, she’ll be the only woman in your life other than Mum and our sisters who won’t eventually leave you.”
And so, for his birthday, they’d marched him down to a breeder and presented him with the squirming, golden-furred bundle that had promptly sneezed in his face.
“Congratulations,” Colin had said. “She’s yours.”
He’d protested, of course. He wasn’t ready for the responsibility. He lived in a small flat. He liked his freedom. But none of it mattered the moment Calliope, Calli, tumbled into his lap, all warm fur and puppy breath, and looked up at him like he was the only person in the world worth trusting.
So yes. Against all odds, Benedict had become a dog person.
However this morning he wasn’t sure he was pleased about that, on their very first official walk through Hyde Park having moved into a new apartment two days earlier, Calli had decided to remind him who was really in charge.
“Easy, Calli,” he muttered, tugging gently on the lead as she strained forward. She ignored him completely, eyes fixed on something in the distance. “We’re supposed to be walking here. Relaxed stroll, fresh air, man and his loyal companion. Very wholesome.”
Calli huffed, unimpressed.
And then she bolted.
One sharp lunge was all it took. Benedict, caught completely off guard, stumbled forward. His coffee flew out of his hand in a tragic arc. His foot slipped on the damp grass, and before he could even curse properly, he was plunging headfirst into the shallows of the Serpentine.
Cold water slapped his skin. His shoe, he realised with dawning horror, was no longer on his foot.
When he finally surfaced, sputtering, dripping, and furious, Calli was nowhere in sight.
“Brilliant,” he muttered, dragging himself out of the river. His clothes clung like seaweed, his hair plastered across his forehead, and his sock squelched obscenely with every step. “Absolutely brilliant start, Bridgerton. Ten out of ten.”
By the time he dragged himself out of the water, he was soaked through, one sock squelching loudly with every step, hair plastered across his forehead.
“Calliope!” he barked, scanning the park. “Bloody, where did you, ”
And there. By a bench. Tail wagging happily as though she hadn’t just ruined his morning.
“Got you,” he muttered, stomping across the grass. “First walk in the park, and you nearly drown me. Perfect.”
The golden retriever sat patiently by a woman’s feet, looking perfectly content. Benedict didn’t pay the woman much attention; his focus was on the dog. Same size, same floppy ears, same honey-colored coat. She looked up at him with guileless brown eyes as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
“Oh no, madam, don’t you give me that innocent look,” he said grimly, snatching up the lead. “You and I are going home right this second.”
And with that, Benedict turned on his heel and started dragging his troublesome dog away from the bench.
“Let go of my dog!” the woman cried, tugging the lead toward her with surprising force.
“Your dog?” Benedict spluttered, holding fast. “Excuse me, but this is clearly my dog. She ran off, and I’ve just pulled her back. Case closed.”
“Case closed?” Her dark eyes flashed. “First of all, who even talks like that? Second, that is Apollo. He has been mine since he was eight weeks old, and he most certainly did not run off with you.”
“Apollo?” Benedict repeated, incredulous. “Her name is Calliope.”
The woman yanked the lead toward her again. The dog, thoroughly enjoying the commotion, bounded happily between them, tongue lolling, ears flapping.
“That, ” she jabbed a finger toward the dog “is Apollo!”
“That, ” Benedict jabbed a finger back “, is Calliope!”
They glared at each other, equally outraged, equally stubborn. The golden retriever sat between them like a referee, tail wagging furiously.
“Look,” Benedict said through gritted teeth, water still dripping from his hair, “I know my dog when I see her.”
“Then you should open your eyes,” the woman shot back, “because yours is sitting over there!”
Benedict blinked, turning his head. Sure enough, by the bench sat his golden retriever, Calli, looking smugly pleased with herself, as if she’d orchestrated the entire debacle.
Which meant… oh.
The woman must have seen the realisation dawn on him, because her expression shifted from fury to triumphant indignation.
“You see?” she said, tugging the lead out of his slackened grip. “This is Apollo. Mine.”
Benedict opened his mouth to apologise, but at that exact moment, Calli decided she’d had quite enough of waiting politely. She bounded over, tangling her lead instantly with Apollo’s. In seconds, the two dogs had wrapped the cords around Sophie’s legs, then Benedict’s, pulling them closer in a hopeless knot.
“Wait, no, hold still!” Benedict staggered, trying to untangle the mess.
“Don’t tell me to hold still!” the woman cried, swatting his hand away. “This is all your fault!”
“My fault? I nearly drowned trying to get this, ” he gestured vaguely at Calli “back under control!”
“And then you tried to steal my dog!” she shot back.
“I didn’t steal him, I mistook him!”
“Well, next time,” she snapped, struggling as Apollo tried to chase Calli’s tail, “try not to mistake someone else’s dog while you’re dripping all over them like some kind of swamp monster!”
Benedict, chest heaving, wet sock squelching, finally blurted, “Fine. He’s yours. Obviously. Can you stop hitting me now?”
She gave him a fierce look, then smacked his chest one more time with her bag for good measure.