Work Text:
Penelope glanced at her watch and exhaled deeply. There was no way she was going to make it to pick-up on time. She cursed under her breath, looked up at the ceiling, and shook her wrist as if that might somehow turn back time an hour. It was the third time this had happened in the last couple of weeks, and she felt terrible.
The feelings of inadequacy had become constant since being back to London with her soon-to-be eight-year-old son, Eric. After a tumultuous divorce and a decade in the States, Penelope had decided that moving home was the best thing for them. Home for her, at least. Eric had his own opinions about what that meant. But she was determined to make it feel like home for him, too.
That determination had already been tested more times than she could count as she tried to juggle her new job with Eric’s schedule and the constant demands of solo parenting. Eloise was just as busy with her career, so Daphne had been a huge help. Eric and Auggie were about the same age, and Daphne was even working to get Eric a spot at the same fancy prep school.
Penelope hated asking for help—though having a support system was one of the main reasons she had moved back in the first place.
Pen: Hey Daph, so sorry to bug you, but I have to stay late today to put out a fire. Can you pick up Eric?
Daph: Shoot, Belinda has ballet today. I can ask Ben to grab him? He’s at the studio around the block from the school.
Penelope stared at the screen and let out a long sigh. She already felt guilty asking Eloise and Daphne for help. The thought of asking Benedict was worse. He would never say no to her, and that was exactly the problem.
He and Eric had met several times over the years. Benedict often traveled to the States for art shows and events. Since their move, Eric had visited his studio a couple of times with Daphne and Auggie.
Logically, it made perfect sense for Benedict to pick him up.
Emotionally, it felt like more.
Pen: No problem. I’ll text him.
——
“I don’t like art,” Eric huffed as he climbed onto one of the tall stools in Benedict’s art studio.
Benedict had a private room with a view where he spent most of his time working on his own pieces, but the open space facing the street was communal. Artists, writers, creatives of all kinds gathered there to share and collaborate. He had spent years cultivating that tight-knit community, and the space meant more to him than most people realized.
So seeing Eric slump onto a stool, defeated—and declaring that he hated the very thing Benedict had built his life around—stung a little.
But he could work with that. He had six younger siblings. He knew that expression well.
“You don’t have to paint,” Benedict said mildly, raising a brow. “You can do your homework.”
Eric seemed completely unbothered. “Sure.”
Benedict blinked.
The kid pulled his notebook from his backpack and placed it on the table without complaint. None of Benedict’s siblings had ever agreed to homework without protest. Even Francesca would take her sweet time at the piano to delay opening a textbook.
“Great,” Benedict said slowly. “Do you mind if I paint?”
“It’s your studio.” Eric shrugged.
Benedict nodded once and began gathering supplies. He wasn’t working on anything in particular, but he hoped that painting beside Eric might spark some curiosity.
He first met Eric when the boy was about three years old. Benedict had been invited to teach a special-topics studio class at the same university where Penelope’s ex-husband and Eric’s father taught. Though he had known they lived nearby, it had still felt like a small miracle when Penelope walked into his classroom. She was finishing her master’s degree and needed one final elective.
After that, they kept in touch sporadically. Whenever Benedict found himself stateside, he made a point to visit. So he knew that Eric had always been introverted, but still a smiley, quietly happy child.
Seeing him so withdrawn now was disheartening.
But Benedict understood all too well what it felt like not having a father around.
He tried to think back to the kinds of things he liked to draw when he was Eric’s age and decided to keep it simple—pencil.
Young Benedict had loved drawing anime-style characters for the stories that both already existed and only lived in his head. The more mystical and powerful, the better. Though he had created plenty of original characters growing up, he knew which one he had to draw.
He began outlining the figure, focusing on sharp, straight lines. He had not drawn in that style in years.
Eric must have noticed how unusually quiet and focused Benedict had become.
“What is that?” He asked.
“Pegasus Seiya. I know it’s cliché, but he’s my favorite knight.”
“I think he’s kind of boring. Ikki is the best.”
Benedict tried not to take offense for the second time that afternoon and simply chuckled. “Bold, interesting choice. Why Ikki?”
“He has the coolest powers. And he does his own thing.”
Benedict grinned, quietly pleased—not only that Eric knew the characters, but that he knew them well enough to have opinions.
Edmund had once returned from a business trip to Tokyo with Saint Seiya comics, and shortly after, the show had started airing on TV. Benedict remembered Penelope and Eloise watching it with him and Colin when they were younger, all of them pretending to be knights in the garden. It was a lovely surprise to realize it had meant enough to Penelope that she had shared it with her son.
Before Benedict could reply, the bell above the door rang as it swung open. Penelope rushed in, slightly out of breath, shaking rain from her coat.
“Hey, boys,” she said with a wide smile—and to Benedict, it felt like a warm beam of sunlight had just entered the room. “What are you up to?”
“Homework… And debating who the best Knight of the Zodiac is,” Eric said with a smirk.
“Debating is a strong word,” Benedict corrected, lifting a finger to make a point. “Taste is merely… subjective. To each their own, right?”
Penelope looked between them and chuckled. “If you say so. But Aphrodite is the best one.”
“Aphrodite?!” Benedict and Eric exclaimed in unison.
“You can’t do better than rose attacks,” she said, folding her arms as she firmly defended her position.
“Yeah, you can. Fire!” Eric shot back, with a disbelieving laugh.
Benedict felt a quiet wave of relief seeing the boy finally smile. Of course his mum had that effect.
“As Uncle Ben said, to each their own, I guess.” She rolled her eyes playfully and stepped forward to hug Eric.
Sitting on the stool, her son was nearly as tall as she was.
When she pulled back, Benedict tilted his head and added cheekily, “Do I get one too?”
She twitched her lips in a small smile and stepped toward him, looping her arms around his neck.
Benedict instinctively placed his hands at her waist, a little taken aback that she was actually hugging him. He was still seated, which meant his face was now dangerously close to her chest. He definitely had not thought that through when he casually asked for a hug.
As if that were not enough to make him feel like an embarrassingly green boy, she leaned in closer and whispered in his ear, her breath warm against his skin that made his heart skip a beat.
“Thank you, Ben.”
—
A week later, Penelope found herself stuck at work again. She hoped these late nights were temporary and not her new normal, but it was still too early to tell. Starting a new job in a city that wasn’t exactly new was exhausting. She wanted to prove herself—to show she could be both a capable mother and reliable at work—even if that meant, ironically, relying on others more than she liked.
Benedict just happened to be the Bridgerton with the most flexible schedule. He taught in the mornings and spent most afternoons at his studio. And now, conveniently, he had started an after-school program. The timing, and the fact that the Bridgerton Foundation was funding it, felt highly suspicious. But who was Penelope to question how her prayers were answered?
Although Eric wasn’t particularly interested in art, he got along well with Benedict, and that was enough. She hoped that spending time at the studio might make him more open to trying new things. Eric was creative—he loved coming up with stories and characters, just like she did—but he was oddly resistant when it came to getting his hands dirty.
She avoided blaming his father in general, but she was sure this was his influence. Eric sometimes tried too hard to be like him, hoping for approval, for attention. And her ex-husband had never made it clear that Eric did not have to mirror him to be loved, which inevitably had become one of their many disagreements.
So Penelope hoped that a little distance and time spent around other men, men like Benedict, might gently draw out a different side of her son.
She was about to open her second energy drink of the day when her phone buzzed.
Ben: Hey Pen
Ben: Is it okay if I take Eric with me to get some art supplies?
Pen: Sure… Where are you guys going?
Ben: Just a little field trip to the arts and crafts market. Hoping to get some artisanal paints.
Pen: Sounds fun. Eric will like that.
Ben: I hope so. Maybe meeting the people who make them will get him excited to try it out.
Pen: Is he giving you a hard time?
Ben: No, not at all.
Pen: Ben.
Ben: Pen.
Pen: I’m serious.
Ben: Me too. When am I not serious??
Pen reacted with 😒
Pen: You don’t have to do all of this. He is more than happy to do his homework and read a comic book after school.
Ben: Excuse me? I run a very respectable afterschool art program, ma’am. No reading on my watch!
Pen reacted with 😂
Pen: Thank you.
Ben: It’s not a favor… It’s a very respectable afterschool art program.
Pen: You have mentioned that, yes. But I was thanking you for the laugh.
Ben: Oh.
Ben: That is complimentary too.
Pen: You could at least let me pay you for watching him. I mean, for the very respectable afterschool art program.
Ben: Sorry, Pen. I have no interest in my accountant breathing down my neck for having to pay more taxes.
Pen: Anthony?
Ben: Anthony.
Pen: Still. I wish you would let me compensate you somehow. It’s a huge help.
Ben is typing a message
Pen: And if you say that seeing me happy is compensation enough or any iteration of that, I’m going to throw up.
Ben is typing a message
…
Pen: I knew it.
—
Benedict pretended to casually browse the market stalls, keeping a discreet eye on what caught Eric’s attention.
He was not entirely sure what had sparked his determination to get the kid to try something artistic, but now that he had the idea, he could not let it go. He knew how cathartic art could be, and what a healthy outlet it was for the kind of feelings Eric was carrying.
But if he was honest, there was another reason. He wanted Eric to like him.
Not in a people-pleasing way. More in an “I wouldn’t mind if you married my mum someday” kind of way.
Benedict exhaled slowly.
He had never allowed his thoughts to wander that far before. But the truth was, he had been pining over Penelope since she had taken his special-topics workshop.
Obviously, it was wrong. Not just because she was in his class, though they had known each other long before that, but because she was married. And he would never interfere in that. His romantic history might have been messy at times, but he had a strict policy when wedding bands and legal certificates were involved.
Besides, Penelope seemed happy.
It was not until she turned in her capstone project that he began to suspect something might have been off. Even then, he kept his distance. Made himself available—a call, a text, a visit when he was stateside—but always careful.
Friendly.
But now she was back in town. Free as a bird—well, as free as someone with a demanding newspaper job and an almost eight-year-old could be.
And it felt like a… sign, for lack of a better word. Like maybe he was finally worthy of her, and maybe this was his chance to win her over.
Still, that small, annoying voice in his head warned him it was too soon. That he would fail spectacularly at keeping things casual, and scare her off by wanting everything.
So he did what he had always done.
He took a step back.
He would simply be present again, and build a relationship with her son.
And if spending time with Eric earned him a few points toward “second-husband material,” that would be more than enough.
“See anything you like?” Benedict asked as Eric approached a stand.
“This beanie looks warm.”
Benedict held back a chuckle. Most kids Eric’s age liked things because they were cool, not because they were practical.
“It sure does. Double-stitched and everything.”
“You know how to knit?” Eric asked, clearly skeptical.
“Crochet. Sort of.” Benedict let out a soft laugh, this one at the memory that surfaced. “My mother had terrible carpal tunnel when she was pregnant with Aunt Daphne and made me finish a baby blanket.”
“My mum likes to crochet. My dad would never do it.”
“Maybe it’s not his thing,” Benedict replied carefully. “That doesn’t mean men can’t do it. Or like it.”
Eric did not argue. He just nodded and ran his hand over the beanie again.
“That color would look good on you,” Benedict offered gently.
“I don’t have any cash. It’s in my backpack at the studio.”
“I’ll get it for you. Now pick something for your mum.”
“For my mum?”
“Yes, for your mum.” Benedict shrugged lightly. “Anytime you buy something for yourself, you should bring her a little something too. Doesn’t have to be big, it could be a flower. A sweet she likes.”
Eric stared at him as if he were explaining quantum physics. And honestly, Benedict suspected that might have been easier.
But at least Eric did not say, Dad would never. Benedict was sure he was going to implode if he did.
After a moment, Eric nodded slowly. “Makes sense. Mum deserves it.” He glanced back at the display. “I think she’d like a matching hat.”
—
Pen: Thank you for the hats.
Ben: It was all Eric.
Pen: He said he didn’t have his wallet.
Ben: Well, I paid for them, but he picked them.
Ben: Team effort.
Pen: You can’t do this, you know.
Ben: What?
Pen: Buy us gifts. On top of everything else.
Ben: You’re so vain.
Pen: What?
Ben: You probably think this song is about you, don’t you?
Pen: Are you singing right now?
Ben: Look, Eric liked the beanie. And I couldn’t pass on the opportunity to support Mrs. Wilson’s Handmade Creations.
Pen reacted with 👀
Pen: And he just willingly picked one for me?
Ben: He said you’d like a matching hat.
Pen: I do.
Ben: Good. You’re terrifying when you’re mad.
Pen reacted with 😂
Pen: I’m still mad.
Ben reacted with 😨
—
Eric seemed quieter than usual.
Benedict didn’t want to push, but he left a few extra art supplies out, just in case the boy felt like trying something new. He glanced at the clock. Penelope usually arrived around this time to pick him up, so he assumed Eric’s mood had something to do with her running late.
He was rinsing brushes when he heard the bell above the studio door chime.
He smiled automatically. But when he turned around, it was not Penelope.
It was Daphne, with Auggie and Belinda.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Daphne said, slightly out of breath. “Hi.”
“It’s fine.” Eric shrugged, sliding his comic book into his bag.
Belinda and Auggie rushed forward to greet Eric, while Benedict’s gaze flicked between the children and his sister.
“Late? I didn’t know you were picking him up.” He planted his hands on his hips.
“Oh. Pen didn’t mention it?”
“If she had,” he scoffed lightly, “I would know you were picking him up.”
Daphne arched a brow. “Someone’s snippy today.”
“I am not—” He stopped himself. “Why are you picking him up?”
“Because he’s staying over tonight.”
“I see.”
He did not see. Not at all.
Why wouldn’t Penelope tell him that? And then it hit him like a freight train.
“Pen has a hot date,” Daphne whispered, grinning. “I thought I’d give her some privacy.”
Everything inside him went still.
It was absurd how physical the reaction was—like his heart had actually stopped pumping blood somehow. His stomach dropped, his ears rang.
Daphne’s smile faltered. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He cleared his throat and gave a small shake of his head. “Just surprised. Not that she has a hot date,” he added quickly. “Good for her. Just… surprised she didn’t mention it.”
Daphne studied him, and he hated how much she resembled their mother in moments like this. He just knew she could see straight through him.
“Well, it’s her first official date since the divorce… Maybe she’s keeping it close to her chest.”
Benedict tried and failed to suppress a groan. The last thing he needed was the image of some supposedly attractive man anywhere near Penelope’s chest.
Daphne noticed, because of course she did. But she did not comment on it right away.
“Does Eric know?” Benedict asked instead.
“He does. Why? Did he seem upset?”
“Not upset. Just… quieter.”
Daphne tilted her head. “So. Only you are upset, then.”
She clicked her tongue lightly, testing him.
Benedict opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again. It was pointless. Maybe talking to Daphne would help, he thought. She and Penelope had grown closer lately, bonded by school functions and birthday parties and everything in between that entailed having children the same age.
“Not upset,” he muttered. “Jealous, maybe.”
“Of Penelope,” Daphne asked sweetly, “or of the hot guy?”
“Ha. Ha.” He forced a smile, but teased her back. “Depends. Who is it?”
“Someone from the newspaper. I think his name is Theo.”
“Mm.” Benedict pressed his lips together. “Classic office romance. Is that why she’s working late every day?”
“Benedict!” Daphne swatted his arm. “Of course not. She would never sacrifice time with Eric for… that.”
She was right.
But the reassurance did very little to settle the sour twist in his stomach. The man already had Penelope during the day, now he had her evenings too.
And probably spent close to her chest.
“She’s lucky to have you, you know,” Benedict said after a moment, his voice sincere now. “She works a lot. She needs the… distraction.”
Daphne softened. “Hey. She’s lucky to have you, too. And you are doing a great job, Ben.”
“Am I?” He huffed quietly. “I have one student in my arts program, and he is yet to pick up a brush.”
“I think he just did.” She nudged him gently with her elbow.
Benedict looked up.
Eric was standing at one of the tables, holding a paintbrush like it might disappear if he did not grip it tightly. He dipped it carefully into a pot of paint, very focused on the task at hand.
And suddenly, Benedict’s chest did not feel so hollow.
—
Benedict could not sleep. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, invading the room through the cracked window. He turned onto his side, then his back, then his other side. But the noise outside was not the loudest thing in the room—it was his own thoughts.
When Eric finally picked up the paintbrush that afternoon, Benedict’s first instinct had been to text Penelope. He is painting. He knew it would make her smile. He even opened the message thread, but then closed it. He did not want to interrupt her date.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fall asleep. Instead, his brain gave him front-row seats to the Penelope Show—every laugh, every soft thank you, every look she had given him that he had perhaps read too much into.
He rolled over again, exhaling sharply. When his phone buzzed against the nightstand, he froze. For a moment, he genuinely thought he had imagined it.
Then it buzzed again.
Pen: Heeeeeeyyyy
Pen: You awake?
Ben: Yeah. You okay?
Pen: Just got home from dinner.
Ben: How was it? Was the food any… good?
Pen: It was fine. A little… bland.
Ben: You think you will go back? Give it another chance?
Pen: No. Not at all.
Ben: High standards are important. Especially when food is involved.
Pen: That is… very Colin of you.
Ben: Ouch.
Pen: It’s your fault, really.
Ben: What is?
Pen: My high standards in… food.
Ben reacted with 👀
Pen: hic
Ben: Was that a hiccup?
Pen: I had two glasses of wine.
Ben: Yikes. The food must have been truly disappointing then.
Pen: Again. Your fault.
Pen: Your food is so… good.
Pen: hic
Ben: You haven’t tried my food yet.
Pen: If it looks good, has to taste good, right?
Pen: hic
Ben: Mm. In that case, your food must be delicious.
Pen: Are you hungry?
Ben: Starving.
—
Benedict opened his eyes reluctantly. He stretched carefully, mindful not to wake Penelope who was still fast asleep beside him. He had to blink twice, just to make sure she was really there.
Propping himself up on one elbow, he turned onto his side and let his fingers drift lightly over her bare shoulder. In the early morning light, her skin looked almost luminous, angelic.
After their text exchange the night before, he had gone straight to her place. Well, first he stopped at her favorite takeout, just in case she was hungry for actual food. And he was glad he did— apparently, showing up at her door in grey sweatpants, a white t-shirt, glasses, and sleep-tousled hair while holding two steaming to-go boxes had made him irresistible.
Finally being with Penelope felt like finding something rare and precious he did not even know he needed, and suddenly understanding why nothing else had ever quite fit. It should have felt terrifying, but instead it just felt like what life was supposed to be.
Though the annoying voice in his head was persistent. It warned him to not overdo it, not scare her off by being too… himself. Earnest, romantic, and too much like a man who wanted to wake up every morning like this.
“Ben,” Penelope murmured sleepily. “Why are you up so early?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered back, sliding his hand from her shoulder into her hair. “Too excited to stay asleep, I guess.”
From this angle he could not see her full expression, but he caught the corner of her mouth lifting into what definitely looked like a smile.
She turned slightly, blinking up at him.
“Hey.”
“Hi there,” he smiled down at her, still absentmindedly playing with her hair, then whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
“Mm. I could use a hand with that.” She lifted her head slightly, placing a soft kiss along his jaw.
“You can have anything you want, angel.”
Her eyes widened, and he winced for already failing his plan to keep it cool. But when she pressed a kiss to his lips, he allowed himself to think that she might have liked it.
“Why did you reply to my text?” She asked between kisses.
“You mean your booty text?”
She pulled back just enough to blink at him. “Booty text?”
“What do you call when you go on a date, then text someone else afterward to… fulfill your needs?” He grinned. “A booty text.”
She laughed, tilting her head back. “Fine. Why did you reply to my booty text?”
“For booty, obviously.” He narrowed his eyes playfully, and they both dissolved into laughter, foreheads touching.
“Ben.”
“Pen.”
“I’m sorry,” she exhaled.
“I’m not.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I like you. And I’ve had feelings for you for a while now.”
She stilled. “You… have?”
He nodded once. “I didn’t want to pressure you. I still don’t. But please, don’t be sorry for this.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
He leaned down and kissed her again, soft and unhurried, then lifted just enough to hover over her mouth.
“Why did you text me?” He murmured.
“Because I have feelings for you, too,” she whispered back.
But to Benedict, it sounded like a symphony.
—
A month later…
Pen: I can’t believe you got Eric a dog.
Ben: Correction. I got myself a dog.
Pen: A dog that you bring to the studio where he goes every day after class.
Ben: It gets lonely in the studio. I wanted some company.
Pen: After I told him this was not the right time to get a dog.
Ben: It’s a good thing you didn’t get a dog, then.
Pen: You let him pick the dog's name.
Ben: He is better with names than I am. He reads more.
Pen: What am I going to do with you?
Ben: Well, if you are taking suggestions…
Pen: You are so lucky I can’t bring myself to rearrange your face.
Ben: I would certainly not mind if you tried. Especially if you use your…
Pen: Do not distract me with your vile ways.
Pen: You spoil him too much.
Ben: Objection. I spoil myself. He simply reaps the benefits.
Ben: Occasionally.
Ben: I’m like the fun uncle. The Funcle.
Pen: Maybe it’s time we tell him you are more than that.
Pen: That’s an awful name, btw.
Ben: …Are you sure?
Ben: About telling Eric. I know I need to workshop the name.
Pen: I’m sure.
Ben: Okay. How do you want to do it?
Pen: We could take him to see the Christmas lights on Oxford Street. Get hot chocolate.
Pen: Starting a London holiday tradition with him will make it feel more like… home.
Ben: I think that’s perfect. It will be cold this week, though.
Pen: We’ll be fine.
Pen: I got a matching hat for you too.
Ben reacted with ❤️