Work Text:
Sophie's highlighter squeaked across the page, yellow ink bleeding through to the article underneath.
Seven-fifteen on a Saturday morning. The kitchen at Bridgerton House caught the early light through tall Georgian windows, turning everything pale gold — marble countertops, fresh peonies spilling out of a crystal vase on the island, the chrome gleam of the La Marzocco in the corner. Sophie had spread Hyacinth's reading materials across the counter with the same precision she'd applied to every tutoring session for the past three weeks. Three annotated articles on attachment theory. Notes colour-coded in green and yellow. First cup of coffee she picked up on the way already going lukewarm.
She was halfway through highlighting a passage about Ainsworth's Strange Situation procedure when she heard footsteps on the stairs.
Not Hyacinth's quick, purposeful tread. Something slower. Heavier.
Sophie's pen stopped moving.
Benedict appeared in the doorway and every functional brain cell Sophie possessed went offline simultaneously.
Grey sweatpants. No shirt. Hair pointing in four different directions like he'd been wrestling his pillow. Eyes half-shut, one hand scrubbing across his stubbled jaw.
The sweatpants were the problem.
The specific, geometrically precise problem of what the sweatpants were doing — which was absolutely nothing to obscure the morning reality of Benedict Bridgerton's body. The fabric clung. Draped. Left nothing to Sophie's imagination, which had been working overtime for three weeks and didn't need additional material.
She looked at her notes. Stared at a sentence about maternal deprivation until the words stopped being English.
This was exactly what Posy had warned her about when she'd first mentioned the job. "Benedict Bridgerton? Andrew's mate from work? The second son?" Posy had laughed so hard she'd snorted wine. "Soph, he's gorgeous and he knows it. Like, professionally knows it. He's shagged half of East London and most of Shoreditch. Are you sure you can handle that?"
Sophie had said yes because the pay was obscene and she needed the money and she was a professional educator who could absolutely tutor a teenage girl without developing inappropriate thoughts about her extremely attractive, semi-famous older brother.
She'd been lying to herself.
"Morning." Benedict's voice came out scratched, underslept. He moved toward the espresso machine with the focused determination of the deeply uncaffeinated.
Sophie forced herself to look at her highlighter, and gripped it tighter than necessary. The professional thing to do. The only thing to do, really, given that Benedict Bridgerton — spare to a viscountcy, creative director at Bridgerton Media, subject of approximately seventeen breathless society page articles Posy had gleefully forwarded her — was standing in his mother's kitchen in grey sweatpants that should be illegal.
"You're up early." She kept her voice steady. Impressive, considering.
"Couldn't sleep." He pulled a mug from the cabinet — one of the mismatched ceramic ones from Hyacinth's primary school days, lopsided and painted with what might have been a bee judging by the colour scheme. "You're here early."
"I'm always here early."
"Right." He leaned against the counter waiting for the espresso to pull, and the position did absolutely devastating things to the muscles of his abdomen and the deep lines of his hips. "Session with the terror at seven-thirty?"
"Eight." Sophie flipped a page she hadn't actually read, her fingers leaving a smudge of yellow highlighter on the margin. "We're covering attachment theory today. Ainsworth's Strange Situation procedure."
She could feel herself defaulting to academic mode. Safe territory. Bowlby and Ainsworth and research methodology instead of the fact that Benedict had stayed over four times in the last three weeks and his flat in Shoreditch sat empty while he camped out in his childhood bedroom and wandered down to breakfast in states of undress that violated every professional boundary Sophie had tried to maintain.
Andrew Barnaby had mentioned, months ago over drinks, that Benedict was "a bit unmoored lately." Sophie had filed that away as none of her business. Except now Benedict was in front of her looking sleep-rumpled and unfairly beautiful and she was tutoring his baby sister while trying not to notice the specific angle of his hipbones above those godforsaken sweatpants.
"Sounds ominous," Benedict said.
"It's actually fascinating. Maternal separation, reunion behaviour, individual differences in infant attachment styles." She tapped her pen against the article, the small clicking sound grounding her. "Hyacinth needs to know the methodology inside out for her research methods exam."
"God help the examiner." Benedict poured his coffee, added a teaspoon of sugar. Steam curled up from the cup, catching the early light from the window. He moved to the island and stood directly across from her. Close enough that Sophie could see the freckles along his sternum. The shadow of hair trailing below his navel. The way his sweatpants sat crooked on one hip like he'd pulled them on in the dark without looking.
Which he probably had.
In one of the upstairs bedrooms.
Where he'd slept.
Stop it, Sophie told herself. Stop thinking about Benedict Bridgerton sleeping. Stop thinking about Benedict Bridgerton waking up. Stop thinking about what Benedict Bridgerton looks like first thing in the morning when he's warm and disheveled and—
"What's all this?"
He gestured at her materials, and Sophie realized she'd been staring at the same sentence for thirty seconds.
"Background reading." She tapped the stack with her pen, the small movement keeping her hands occupied. "Bowlby, Ainsworth, some recent meta-analyses. Hyacinth's sitting her Psychology A-level next year. She needs to understand the classic studies."
"You're making her read academic journals?" Benedict picked up one of the articles. His fingers left a small smudge of coffee grounds on the title page. "She's fifteen."
"She's gifted. And the exam board expects detailed evaluation of research. Can't evaluate what you haven't read."
Benedict scanned the abstract, his eyes moving quickly across the page. Sophie watched him read. Watched the small furrow appear between his eyebrows. He had good hands. Long fingers. Two rings. A woven bracelet on his left wrist. She'd noticed that the first time they'd met, three weeks ago when he'd shown up at the pub in Shoreditch to offer her the job.
Posy had been right. He was gorgeous and the way he carried himself suggested he knew it. But there was something else too, something softer underneath the easy charm and the reputation for sleeping his way through half of London's art scene. He'd been genuinely enthusiastic about getting Hyacinth a good tutor; he had described his sister with obvious affection and exasperation in equal measure.
Sophie had liked him immediately, which was inconvenient given everything else.
"You're better at this than the last three tutors combined," Benedict said, setting the article down.
"The bar was low."
"True. The last one quit after Hyacinth corrected her Latin conjugations." His mouth curved. "In front of Mum."
Sophie had heard that story. Multiple versions. The Bridgertons were semi-famous — old money, titles, the whole aristocratic package modernized through media empire wealth. Their mother was a fixture in society pages. Their lives were the kind of thing people gossiped about at parties.
Benedict shifted his weight, moved around the island. Closer.
Sophie's heartbeat picked up.
He reached past her for the sugar bowl, his arm brushing her shoulder. Bare skin against the sleeve of her cream wool jumper. Warm. Brief. Completely incidental.
Every nerve ending Sophie possessed disagreed about the incidental part.
"Sorry." He didn't sound sorry. Poured sugar into a second cup with his left hand, standing close enough she could smell his soap. Cedar and something else, something warm. "Didn't mean to crowd you."
"You're not." The lie came out steady. Professional. Meanwhile her body was cataloguing the precise distance between them, the temperature of his skin, the fact that she could see the hollow of his throat when she looked up.
Her eyes did the thing where they glanced up for a nanosecond he would never notice. She hoped he had not noticed. She was not certain he had not noticed.
"Good." He leaned his hip against the counter, ankles crossed. The grey sweatpants doing their absolute worst. "Because I'd hate to make things awkward."
Sophie reached for her coffee. Took a sip of the lukewarm swill. Anything to occupy her hands, her mouth, her brain. "Shouldn't you be at work?"
Benedict blinked. Then laughed, low and sleep-rough. "It's Saturday."
Heat crawled up Sophie's neck. "Right. Obviously."
"I mean, I could go into the office." He took another sip of coffee, eyes bright over the rim of Hyacinth's lopsided mug. "Stare at ad revenue reports. Pretend to care about market penetration metrics. But that seems masochistic even for a Bridgerton, and I'm not Anthony."
"I thought you liked your job."
"I tolerate my job. There's a difference." He tilted his head. "Besides, I'd hate to miss this."
"Miss what?"
"You. Teaching my sister about maternal deprivation at half seven on a Saturday." His mouth curved. "It's adorable."
Sophie's pen stopped moving. "It's not adorable."
"You colour-code your notes."
"That's called organisation."
"You arrive an hour early to prep."
"That's called professionalism."
"You're wearing a jumper with elbow patches."
Sophie looked down at her cream wool jumper. The patches were suede, subtle, perfectly serviceable. She'd bought it at a charity shop in Camden for twelve pounds and it was warm and comfortable and—
"What's wrong with my jumper?"
"Nothing. It's very you." Benedict's grin widened. "Serious. Competent. Probably smells like library books and academic ambition."
"You're the one who offered me this job." The words came out sharper than she'd intended, and Sophie immediately regretted them. "If you didn't think I was qualified—"
"Whoa." He held up one hand. "I think you're extremely qualified. That's why I suggested you to Mum when Andrew mentioned you were looking for work."
Sophie remembered that phone call. She'd been in the British Library, surrounded by books on educational psychology, when her mobile had buzzed with an unknown number. Benedict's voice on the other end, warm and slightly apologetic. "This is going to sound mental, but Andrew Barnaby gave me your number. My mother needs a tutor for my youngest sister. Are you interested?"
She'd almost said no. Almost brushed it off as some elaborate prank. But the pay he'd quoted had been real, and when she'd met Violet Bridgerton two days later in this very kitchen, the woman had been so genuinely desperate for someone who could handle Hyacinth that Sophie had signed on immediately.
Three weeks later, here she was. Colour-coding notes while trying not to stare at Benedict Bridgerton's chest.
"I just meant," Benedict continued, softer, "you're good at this. Hyacinth actually respects you. That's rare."
"She respects people who don't condescend to her."
"Exactly." He shifted closer, set his mug down next to her notes. Coffee rings already staining the marble. "You treat her like an adult. You challenge her. She's been in a better mood since you started."
"She called me a 'capitalist shill perpetuating heteronormative attachment narratives' last Tuesday. Then she asked me about my skincare routine."
Benedict laughed. Actually laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. "See? Better mood. Usually she just threatens violence."
Sophie's mouth twitched despite herself.
This was the problem. Not just that Benedict was attractive — she'd known that from the society pages, from Posy's warnings, from the first time she'd seen him across a crowded pub in Shoreditch. The problem was that he was funny. Kind. Obviously adored his family despite their various neuroses.
The problem was that Sophie liked-liked him.
"I'm glad you took the job," Benedict said, and the way he said it — low, sincere — did something complicated to Sophie's chest.
She looked at him properly then. Sleep-mussed hair falling across his forehead. Morning stubble. Bare chest in his mother's kitchen like this was normal, like he belonged here in this space between night and day.
He'd stayed over four times in the last three weeks. His flat in Shoreditch — the one Andrew had described as "aggressively bohemian" with exposed brick and art on every wall — sat empty while Benedict camped out in his childhood bedroom.
Sophie had theories about why. None of them were her business.
"You're staring," Benedict said. His mouth curved.
"You're half-naked in your mother's kitchen."
"I'm in my own home." He took another sip of coffee. "Besides, I thought you were all about developmental psychology. Comfort with the human body is healthy."
"That's not—" Sophie stopped. Regrouped. Clicked her pen twice. "Bowlby's attachment theory doesn't apply to you."
"Why not?"
"Because you're twenty-eight, not fifteen months, and you should have resolved your separation anxiety a quarter-century ago."
"Ouch." But he was grinning. "Maybe I'm insecurely attached."
"Maybe you're a—"
"Jesus Christ, Benedict, put your tits away."
Hyacinth stood in the doorway wearing an oversized hoodie and the most judgmental expression Sophie had ever seen on a teenage face. Which was saying something, given she'd spent three weeks watching Hyacinth eviscerate Freud with surgical accuracy.
"They're not tits, they're pectorals," Benedict said mildly.
"They're traumatising my tutor." Hyacinth moved to the fridge, pulled out yoghurt. "Look at her. She's gone all pink. You're inflicting your nipples on an innocent academic."
"I'm fine," Sophie said, too quickly.
"You're blushing," Hyacinth said. "It's very telling."
Benedict looked at Sophie. Sophie looked at her notes. The highlighter had bled through to the page underneath, leaving a fluorescent stain.
"I'll put a shirt on," Benedict said, "if you stop terrorising Miss Baek."
"I'm not terrorising her. I'm observing." Hyacinth settled onto a barstool, opened her yoghurt with unnecessary violence. "It's called the scientific method. You'd know that if you'd paid attention in school instead of shagging your way through your foundation year."
"I got a first, you little sociopath."
"Because you're a visual learner and mum paid for private tutors." Hyacinth spooned yoghurt with the air of someone delivering a devastating closing argument. "Also, you're standing in Mum's kitchen in grey sweatpants giving bedroom eyes to my tutor. It's seven-forty in the morning. Have some dignity."
Benedict's ears went pink. Actually pink. Sophie watched it happen, fascinated despite herself.
"I'm not giving anyone bedroom eyes," he said.
"You absolutely are. You look like a sad Romantic poet. All 'woe is me, I'm indecent and tortured and unmoored.'" Hyacinth affected a theatrical swoon. "It's embarrassing. For you. And possibly for Sophie, though she's being very professional about it."
Sophie wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
"Hyacinth," Benedict said, with the careful patience of someone counting to ten internally, "you are a menace to society and I'm telling Mum you need more extracurriculars."
"Tell her. She'll sign me up for more tutoring and I'll get even smarter and more insufferable." Hyacinth smiled, sweet as arsenic. "It's called positive reinforcement. We covered it last week. Sophie taught me."
Benedict looked at Sophie. Sophie looked at the article on Bowlby's maternal deprivation hypothesis and wished she'd chosen a different career. Deep water welding, maybe. In a remote location. Without any attractive brothers lurking about in various states of undress.
"You've created a monster," Benedict said.
"I've created a well-informed A-level student," Sophie corrected. She gathered her papers with perhaps more force than necessary, stacking them into precise piles. "Which is literally what your mother is paying me for."
"See?" Hyacinth pointed her spoon at Benedict. "Professional. Unlike you, standing there with your whole chest out like a pasty nineties heartthrob."
"It's my house—"
"It's Mum's house. You have a flat. In Shoreditch. That you're not using." Hyacinth's eyes gleamed. "Funny how you've stayed over four times in the last couple of weeks. Almost like you're proximity-seeking. Ring any bells, Sophie?"
Sophie clicked her pen three times in rapid succession. "We should start the session."
"It's seven-forty-five," Hyacinth said. "We start at eight."
"Fifteen minutes to review Ainsworth's methodology."
"I've already read it. Last night. All three articles plus the supplementary reading you emailed." Hyacinth took another bite of yoghurt, utterly unbothered. "I have notes and three critical evaluations of her sampling procedure."
Of course she did.
Benedict pushed off the counter, drained his coffee. "I'll leave you two to it."
He moved past Sophie on his way to the door. Slower than necessary. Close enough that she felt the heat coming off his skin, caught another whiff of that cedar soap.
"See you later, Miss Baek."
The way he said her name — low, warm, like he was tasting it — sent electricity straight down Sophie's spine.
She gripped her pen harder. Stared at her notes. Absolutely did not watch him leave.
"You know," Hyacinth said conversationally, once Benedict's footsteps had faded up the stairs, "attachment behaviours manifest in adolescence and adulthood. Proximity-seeking, separation distress, secure base effects."
Sophie pulled out a chair. Sat. Arranged her papers in grid formation. "Let's discuss Ainsworth's coding system."
"I'm just saying. He never stays over. He has a perfectly good flat. Mum even has to bribe him to get him to show up to Sunday dinners." Hyacinth smiled. "But he's been here every weekend since you started. Almost like he's seeking proximity to a specific stimulus."
"Hyacinth—"
"It's very interesting. From a psychological perspective." Hyacinth's grin could have cut glass. "You should write a paper. 'Attachment Patterns in Sexually Frustrated Creative Directors: A Case Study.'"
Sophie's face went hot. "That's not—"
"Type B attachment. Secure. Comfortable with intimacy but also with independence." Hyacinth tapped her spoon against her yoghurt pot. "Except he's acting insecurely attached lately. Wonder why."
"We're discussing Ainsworth," Sophie said firmly. "Not your brother."
"Fine." Hyacinth pulled out her notes, flipped to a page covered in her aggressive scrawl. "But for the record? The shirtlessness was a choice. He owns a robe. Multiple. In terrycloth and silk."
Sophie stared at her highlighter and tried very hard not to think about Benedict Bridgerton making wardrobe choices, about grey sweatpants and proximity-seeking and the way he'd said her name like it meant something.
She failed comprehensively.
"Right," Sophie managed, pulling the first article toward her with more force than necessary. "Ainsworth. Strange Situation. Eight-episode procedure. Let's start with the baseline observation."
Hyacinth's smile was absolutely diabolical. "Whatever you say, Miss Baek."
The way she said it — mimicking her brother's inflection exactly, that same warm drop in register — made Sophie's stomach flip in ways that had nothing to do with maternal separation anxiety.
She clicked her pen twice. Stared at the first page of the article. The words swam.
Upstairs, a door closed. Water ran through pipes. Benedict, presumably, showering. Putting on actual clothes. Doing normal Saturday morning things that Sophie absolutely was not thinking about.
Hyacinth was still watching her with that knowing expression, chin propped on one hand, the other tapping her spoon against her yoghurt pot in a rhythm that felt deliberately pointed.
Sophie turned to a fresh page in her notebook and wrote Ainsworth - Strange Situation Procedure at the top in her neatest handwriting.
Her pen slipped. Left a small ink smudge next to the P in Procedure.
She didn't fix it.