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Benedict Bridgerton had always believed that universities were built on three essential pillars: tradition, ego, and caffeine.
Tradition kept the old stone buildings standing and the faculty clinging stubbornly to the way things had always been done. Ego ensured that the faculty meetings were never dull. And caffeine—well, caffeine was the only reason any of them survived midterms.
He considered himself a reasonably progressive addition to the English department at Mayfair University. Thirty-four years old, tenured earlier than expected, and dangerously fond of literature that unsettled people, Benedict had cultivated a reputation among students as the “hot professor,” which he pretended not to know about and absolutely knew about-and loved.
He knew his students called the spectacles he wore his “slutty little glasses.” He wore tailored blazers and rolled his sleeves to the elbow when he lectured. He quoted poetry without notes. He paced when he grew animated. He smirked lopsidedly when someone tried to challenge him.
He had, until recently, been perfectly content.
And then Sophie Baek had become his graduate assistant.
He noticed her before he knew her name.
It was at the start-of-term faculty mixer. Benedict had been halfway through an overly sweet glass of white wine when he spotted her across the courtyard. Her outfit consisted of white jeans and a black leather jacket, certainly not the typical kind of outfit someone wore to one of these events. She stood with a small cluster of graduate students, laughing at something one of them had said.
She wasn’t laughing politely. She was laughing fully, head tipped back, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, sunlight catching on the subtle sheen of it. There was something warm and unguarded about the sound, even across the distance.
And then she glanced his way.
Not shyly. Not boldly. Simply aware.
Her gaze lingered for a fraction longer than necessary. Curious. Assessing.
He lifted his glass slightly in acknowledgment.
She arched her brow.
He nearly choked on his wine.
Later that afternoon, Dr. Pembroke, the department chair, cornered him with a plate of limp fruit and a gleam in her eye.
“Benedict, you’ll be taking on a new graduate assistant this semester. Exceptional candidate. First-year master’s student. Her name is Sophie Baek.”
“Ah,” he said, in what he hoped was a neutral tone. “I look forward to meeting her.”
Benedict wasn’t particularly interested in having to deal with a bright-eyed graduate assistant, another aspect of the bureaucracy of academia. He made a mental note to come up with some project to keep her busy for the semester.
“You already have,” Dr. Pembroke replied dryly. “She’s the one who looked like she was unimpressed by you.”
Benedict blinked. “Unimpressed?”
“She asked me whether you always gesticulate like you’re trying to summon a storm.”
Pembroke pointed across the yard, where Benedict could still hear that infectious laugh from earlier.
The girl in the leather jacket.
Fuck.
Their first official meeting took place in his office the following Monday.
Benedict had arranged his bookshelves—though he would never admit that—so that they looked casually chaotic rather than aggressively tidy. He leaned against his desk when she knocked.
“Come in.”
Sophie stepped inside with a leather-bound notebook tucked under her arm and an expression that was equal parts polite and amused.
Up close, she was devastating.
Not in an obvious way. There was no exaggerated effort in her appearance. Simple blouse, dark jeans, understated jewelry. Much different than how she’d dressed at the faculty mixer. But her eyes were sharp and there was a confidence in the way she moved that unsettled him in a most invigorating manner.
“Dr. Bridgerton,” she began.
“Please, Benedict is fine” he corrected gently.
She tilted her head. “I didn’t think you’d be so…humble, Professor”
He felt something spark in his chest.
“Flattery won’t improve your stipend,” he replied smoothly.
“That wasn’t flattery,” she said. “It was an observation.”
He studied her for a moment. “Miss Baek.”
“Sophie.”
“Sophie,” he repeated, tasting the name as though it were part of a poem. “You’ll be assisting with grading, managing discussion sections, and ensuring my life doesn’t descend into complete chaos.”
She smiled faintly. “So I am here to keep you humble.”
“An impossible task,” he said gravely.
“We’ll see.”
There it was again—that quiet challenge.
He should have been wary.
Instead, he felt…delighted.
Within a week, he understood that Sophie Baek was dangerous.
She was meticulous. Efficient. Brilliant in discussion sections. The students adored her—though not in the overt, gossiping way they adored him. They trusted her.
She pushed them.
And she pushed him.
It began during their first lecture debrief.
“I think,” she said carefully, perched in the chair opposite his desk, “that your argument about sincerity in contemporary fiction was compelling. But you undercut it by dismissing genre fiction.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I did no such thing.”
“You said—” she flipped open her notebook “—‘genre fiction is merely a playground for tropes.’”
“It was a joke.”
“Your students didn’t laugh.”
“That’s because they lack discernment.”
She met his gaze steadily. “Or because they think you mean it.”
He regarded her in silence.
Most assistants nodded along to his lectures. Sophie dissected them.
“You disagree with my statement?” he challenged.
“I think genre fiction can carry as much thematic weight as so-called literary fiction,” she said. “Just last week you taught that meaning lies in intention and execution, not category.”
He had, in fact, taught that.
A slow smile curved his mouth. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“I wouldn’t be much use to you if I didn’t.”
His pulse ticked a little faster.
“Fine. I welcome your dissent,” he said.
“Good,” she replied lightly. “Because I have plenty of it.”
By October, their banter had become his favorite part of the day.
He would stride into his office from the faculty lounge to find Sophie already there, laptop open, glasses perched low on her nose.
“You’re late,” she would say without looking up.
“I’m fashionably delayed.”
That day he was wearing a perfectly tailored button up today, and his best slacks. She looked him up and down. Benedict tried not to follow her eyes as they followed his body.
“You’re twelve minutes behind schedule,” Sophie said finally.
“Were you counting?”
“Of course.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Only if you intend to maintain an illusion of control.”
He took a sip from his coffee and leaned against his desk. “You enjoy this.”
“Immensely.”
“You realize I assign your workload.”
“And yet you haven’t punished me.”
He paused, caught off guard by the double edge in her tone.
“Careful,” he murmured.
Her eyes flicked up, bright and unreadable.
“Careful yourself, Professor.”
It was a game. It had to be.
He told himself that often.
The first crack in his composure came during a late evening grading session.
Midterms had descended upon them like an avalanche, and the department offices were nearly empty. Rain tapped steadily against the windows.
Sophie sat cross-legged on the couch, red pen in hand, brow furrowed in concentration.
He watched her longer than necessary.
“Is there something on my face?” she asked without looking up.
“No.”
“You’ve been staring.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
He exhaled slowly. “You’re very thorough.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It can be.”
She finally glanced at him, eyes dancing. “You’re terrible at indirect praise.”
“And you’re remarkably self-assured.”
“I have to be,” she said quietly. “If I don’t believe I belong here, no one else will.”
The levity slipped for a moment.
He straightened. “You belong here.”
She studied him.
“I know,” she said after a beat. “But it’s nice to hear.”
Something shifted then. Something softer.
He cleared his throat. “You’re one of the sharpest minds I’ve encountered in years.”
Her lips curved faintly. “Are you flirting with me, Professor?”
The air thickened.
“I told you to call me Benedict,” he said evenly. “And I’m simply acknowledging talent.”
“Mmm.”
“That is not the sound of someone convinced.”
“Because I’m not.”
He stood, crossing the room before he could fully consider the implications. He stopped a careful distance from the couch.
“I am your supervisor,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“There are lines.”
“Of course.”
She set her pen aside.
“But you’re also a man,” she added, with a smirk.
His heart stuttered.
“And you,” he managed, “are exceptionally perceptive.”
She rose to her feet.
Now they were standing far too close.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” she said softly.
“You don’t,” he replied.
“Good.”
She slipped past him, the brush of her shoulder against his arm deliberate.
“Goodnight, Professor.”
He remained standing there long after she left.
He tried to behave.
He truly did.
He kept their interactions professional. He avoided unnecessary proximity. He reminded himself daily that he valued his career and that Sophie deserved mentorship untainted by complication.
But Sophie did not make it easy.
During one seminar observation, she challenged a guest lecturer so deftly that Benedict nearly applauded.
Later, as they walked across campus, he said, “You dismantled him.”
“I simply asked questions.”
“You cornered him.”
She grinned. “You trained me well.”
“Don’t attribute your ruthlessness to me.”
“Oh, I absolutely will.”
He stopped walking.
“Sophie.”
She turned.
“If you continue to look at me like that,” he said quietly, “I may forget every sensible instinct I possess.”
Her gaze softened.
“And what would that entail?” she asked.
He stepped closer.
“Regret.”
She searched his face.
“Or,” she whispered, “something worth remembering.”
The wind rustled through the trees. Students passed by, oblivious.
He reached out before he could stop himself and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
Her breath hitched.
They both froze.
And then—
“Professor Bridgerton?”
They sprang apart.
A sophomore stood a few yards away, clutching a textbook.
Benedict felt his composure snap back into place like armor.
“Yes?”
“I had a question about the reading—”
“Email me,” he said briskly. “Office hours are tomorrow.”
The student nodded and hurried off.
Sophie bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
“This is not amusing,” he muttered.
“It’s a little amusing.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” she said lightly, “you haven’t asked to reassign me.”
He sighed.
“No. I haven’t.”
The turning point came at the department’s winter party.
Faculty were encouraged—strongly—to attend. Graduate students were invited. It was a peculiar attempt at camaraderie.
Benedict had every intention of leaving early.
And then Sophie walked in.
She wore a light blue dress that looked like it had been painted onto her by a Pre-Raphaelite artist, made just for her. Her hair was swept up, exposing the graceful line of her neck, on which a beautiful pendant hung.
He forgot how to breathe.
She caught sight of him across the ballroom.
And smiled.
He crossed the room before he could talk himself out of it.
“You clean up well, Professor,” she said.
“You’re trying to kill me.”
“Not intentionally.”
He smiled at her then, earnestly.
“And for the millionth time, please call me Benedict.”
Instead of responding, Sophie took his hand and pulled him along to the dance floor as a slow song began.
“Dance with me.”
His hand settled at her waist.
“This is ill-advised,” he murmured.
“Probably,” Sophie replied, a teasing tone to her voice.
“You enjoy pushing boundaries.”
“I enjoy honesty.”
“And what is honest about this?”
She looked up at him.
“That I’ve wanted you since the first day I walked into your office,” she replied.
The admission hit him like a shockwave.
“Sophie—”
“I know the risks,” she continued. “I’m not naive. But I’m also not a child. We’re both adults. I’m not your student. I respect you. And I—”
She faltered.
“You what?” he pressed softly.
“I like you.”
The simplicity of it undid him.
He tightened his hold slightly.
“I have spent months convincing myself that my interest was unprofessional,” he said. “That I was projecting. That it would be selfish.”
“And now?”
“And now,” he breathed, “I think denying it might be the more selfish choice.”
Her fingers slid down his arm—innocent enough to any observer, devastating to him.
“Then be selfish,” she said softly.
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself.
Without another word, he took her hand.
They slipped out through the side doors, unnoticed in the swirl of music and conversation. The corridor beyond the ballroom was quiet, dimly lit. Their footsteps echoed against polished floors as they walked—too quickly for propriety, too slowly for impatience.
“If we’re caught–,” she teased as they turned a corner.
“We won’t be.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I am.”
She laughed under her breath. “That confidence is either incredibly attractive or incredibly reckless.”
“Why choose?”
By the time they reached the English department wing, the building was nearly empty. Most faculty were still downstairs; students would assume offices were locked for the evening.
He unlocked his door with steady hands that did not reflect the storm beneath his calm exterior.
The moment it shut behind them and he locked it once more, the silence shifted.
Private.
Charged.
Sophie turned slowly to face him.
“This,” she said, voice quieter now, “is a bad idea, right?”
“Yes.”
Neither of them moved away.
Her gaze drifted over him—his loosened tie, the faint flush in his cheeks, the way his jaw tightened as though he were holding himself in check.
“You’re staring again,” she whispered.
“I’m allowed to,” he replied.
“Why?”
“Because you’re mine.”
The words slipped out before he could soften them.
Her breath caught.
“Oh,” she said.
Something in that soft exhale broke the last of his restraint.
He stepped forward, backing her gently toward his desk—not hurried, not aggressive, simply deliberate. His hand found her waist, the silk of her dress warm beneath his palm.
“Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how impossible you made tonight?”
She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “I was perfectly well behaved.”
“You wore this dress.”
“That isn’t misbehavior.”
“It is when you look at me the way you did on the dance floor.”
“And how was that?”
“Like you knew exactly what you were doing to me.”
She smiled slowly. “Maybe I did.”
He groaned softly under his breath and lowered his forehead to hers.
“Sophie, you’re dangerous,” he grunted.
“You like danger.”
“Only in controlled doses.”
Her hands slid up his chest, smoothing over the fabric of his shirt before curling into his lapels.
“And is this controlled?” she asked.
“Barely.”
She laughed softly, but it faded when his thumb traced the line of her jaw. He lifted her chin, studying her face as though committing every detail to memory.
“You’re breathtaking,” he said, not teasing now.
Her confidence faltered just a fraction. “You’re biased.”
“I’m observant,” he whispered.
Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he let out the faintest "fuck it."
Benedict’s mouth claimed hers with slow, deliberate pressure at first, as though savoring the shape of her lips. And she responded, tilting her head, parting for him—and the kiss shifted, heat flaring between them.
Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low sound from his throat.
He answered by pulling her closer, one hand spanning the small of her back, the other tangling firmly at her waist. The silk of her dress was smooth beneath his palm, but the warmth of her body beneath it was what made him lose focus entirely.
She kissed him like she had something to prove.
Like she wanted him breathless.
Her mouth moved against his—slow strokes, teasing retreats, then returning with deliberate intensity. When her teeth grazed his lower lip, he inhaled sharply.
“Sophie,” he warned softly against her mouth.
She smiled into the kiss.
“Too much?” she whispered.
“Not enough.”
That seemed to delight her.
She leaned into him fully now, her legs tightening subtly at his hips as she pulled him closer. The contact sent a jolt straight through him, and he deepened the kiss in response—one hand sliding up her back, fingers splaying just beneath her shoulder blades.
He tilted her chin slightly, changing the angle, and kissed her again—slower but heavier, lips pressing, lingering, then parting only to return with more insistence.
The air between them grew thick.
Her breathing turned uneven.
When his thumb traced lightly along her jaw before dipping to the sensitive curve beneath her ear, she shivered and made a small sound that went straight to his core.
Sophie was now fully seated on his desk, her legs instinctively creating the space for him to be as close to her as possible. Papers shifted and slid to the floor, but neither of them paid attention.
“Professor,” she breathed against his mouth.
He smiled faintly. “Careful.”
“You started it.”
“You escalated.”
She tipped her head back slightly as his lips brushed along her jaw, down the curve of her neck. He felt the subtle shiver that ran through her and paused, looking up.
“Too much?” he asked this time.
Her eyes were dark, steady. “Not nearly enough.”
His restraint thinned further.
He kissed her again, slower, deeper—one hand tangling in her hair, the other splayed at her waist. The world beyond that office ceased to exist. No faculty. No rules. No expectations.
Just the soft sound of her breath catching when his fingers traced the exposed skin at her shoulder.
She pulled him closer by his tie, her lips curving when he stumbled half a step forward.
“I like seeing you undone,” she whispered.
“I am not undone.”
“You’re in denial.”
He lifted his head just enough to meet her gaze. “You’re sitting on my desk in a locked office after midnight.”
“Yes.”
“And you think I’m the one in denial?”
She grinned, triumphant.
“Maybe we both are.”
He slid his hands slowly down her arms, savoring the warmth of her skin beneath his touch.
“You realize,” he said quietly, “that if anyone knew where we were—”
“They don’t.”
“And if they did?”
She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear.
“Then they’d know you’re not nearly as composed as you pretend to be.”
He let out a soft, helpless laugh against her neck.
“You enjoy tormenting me.”
“I enjoy you.”
That silenced him.
The teasing edge softened into something deeper, steadier. He cupped her face again, more gently this time.
“This isn’t just… thrill-seeking,” he said.
“I know.”
“It’s not about sneaking away.”
“I know,” she repeated, softer now.
He kissed her again—not with urgency, but with intention. His hands mapped the curve of her waist, the line of her spine, learning her in slow, deliberate touches that left both of them breathless.
She shifted closer, her legs brushing his, and the intimacy of it—the trust of it—made his pulse pound harder than any stolen kiss could.
“You make it very difficult to be honorable,” he murmured.
“Good,” she replied, her lips grazing his. “I prefer you honest.”
He exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead to hers.
“I want you,” he said, the words low and unguarded.
Her answer was immediate.
“Then have me.”
The invitation hung between them—heavy, electric.
He paused, searching her face once more, ensuring the teasing had given way to certainty.
She nodded.
He laid her gently onto the desk fully, before getting on his knees below her.
Outside the office windows, the campus remained quiet. The music from the formal was faint and distant.
Inside, the only sound was their breathing and their moaning and the soft rustle of silk and fabric as restraint finally gave way to want.
And for the first time, he finally heard Sophie say the one word he’d so long yearned for her to say.
“More, please, Benedict,” she whimpered.
And Benedict Bridgerton—hot professor, reluctant rule-breaker, incurable romantic—realized that the university still ran on tradition, ego, and caffeine.
But now, it also ran on something far more intoxicating.
Sophie Baek.
And he had no intention of ever letting her go.