Chapter Text
There’s a rumor around school.
It starts the very first day Mr. Bridgerton changes. Despite being everyone's favorite art teacher, he has always been known for the same habits. He arrives late to his own classes, gives very few tests, and usually disappears before staff or parents meetings even begin.
Lately, though, he hardly seems to leave school.
Mr. Bridgerton arrives early, stays for lunch with the other teachers, and lingers long after the final bell. But maybe, just maybe, it is merely a coincidence that he's often seen around the newest French teacher.
But Miss Sophie Baek could not be more different from him. She's one of the first to arrive every morning and the last to leave—staying late to help struggling students. Her patience comes easily, all her gentleness smooth as grapes.
Everyone grows fond of her the very first day she starts. The art teacher seems to be no exception.
But really, it is merely just rumors.
The first time they have a full and proper conversation they are playing a game for the newly enrolled students. Two truths and a lie. First-years and teachers are standing around the room, chatting in small groups. Sophie moves reluctantly into the crowd, looking for someone who isn't already talking.
There's a tap on her shoulder that makes her turn around. It's the first time she properly sees him, and he greets her with a small, easy smile.
"Hi, I'm Benedict."
"Oh, hello. I'm Sophie."
They already know that—they had been briefly introduced earlier. She internally scolds herself until he speaks again "Okay." He thinks for a second. "I have four siblings. I failed art school, twice. And my favorite color is green."
"Oh, mine too," Sophie smiles with surprise.
Benedict blinks.
"You already know which one's true?"
"The little green mural in the courtyard," she explains. "I saw it when I came for my interview. I asked who painted it, and they told me it was the second-year art teacher."
Benedict scratches the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed. She studies him in fascination. It is oddly endearing.
"Well," he chuckles, "you've crossed one off. Now guess."
"The art school one."
"Nope." He grins. "I have eight siblings. Four brothers and four sisters."
Her mouth falls open, and Benedict can only laugh, gesturing his hand to her.
"Your turn."
"Okay." She clears her throat. "I collect bows. I worked at a bookstore before I got this job. Oh, and I crashed my dad's wedding because my stepmother wouldn't let me attend."
Benedict just stares at her—his expression is so genuinely horrified that Sophie has to press her lips together to keep from laughing.
"The wedding thing," he states. "Obviously."
"Wrong." She smiles. "I worked at a bakery for three years."
He tilts his head in disbelief. Benedict feels oddly curious about that, or more than that, about her. He just wants to learn anything about her. Whatever she wishes to say, any small detail of hers that he can keep. But Anthony calls for a change of partners and Sophie smiles at him before she slips away.
His gaze lingers over her the rest of the evening, until it’s the end of the day and Benedict finds that she has already gone home. It feels odd to miss her already.
Mr. Benedict Bridgerton was always often seen in “normal” clothes. An old Star Wars t-shirt always on, his glasses hanging on the collar without really being used, his hair barely fixed. This is how it’s said he first met Miss Sophie, who arrived one of the weeks when he barely attended his own lessons—finding excuses until the assistant principal, his own older brother, had to reprimand him.
There’s not much said about that interaction. It was Michala, everyone’s beloved Health Studies teacher, who presented them. It was brief, and Mr. Bridgerton was on his way out, but then he didn’t leave until hours later.
The very next morning, he arrived early, dressed in a button-up shirt and a brown coat. And gel. Too much gel on his hair. (It already created nicknames around him). It only lasted two days because Sophie had complimented his shirt—The Empire Strikes Back, she said passing by, it always was her favorite one.
He wears the shirt again the next day. (To the disappointment of Anthony). He gets rid of the gel but the glasses and the slacks stay. Benedict draws for mere enjoyment during his break for the first time in years, a simple sketch of Princess Leia, that he thinks to maybe save for the French teacher. But she stays hours later, again, because one of her students is struggling and she stays with them. It fills his chest with bubbles, and he waits for her like a fool. When Sophie is finally done for the day, there are diamonds shining under her eyes when he gifts her his silly drawing—letting him accompany her home.
Sophie later gifts him a box of cookies she made herself. Benedict makes sure to save those for himself and keep the card with the little pink bow at home before anyone else can see.
After that, it’s a knowledge to most of the peeking eyes that Miss Baek likes to arrive early and leave very late, and that somehow, Mr. Bridgerton adopts part of her routine too—waiting for her after everyone is done for the day.
Sophie likes to practice her lessons a day before class starts. She brings her own cards and brings different games to make the subject less dull for everyone. Once, she tries to color her own card game for a support class before a test, but her art skills suck (courtesy of her students' own harsh words, and Alfie’s unsolicited honesty). Mr. Bridgerton offers to do them with her, instead. He doesn’t have to, but he insists.
So they begin to spend the next weeks with Benedict painting the cards that Sophie hands for him after she’s done. He begins to paint more and more, the smallest, ordinary things. He draws more of Star Wars and his class loves it, until Sophie suggests him to make an art project with the movies as a theme. It’s a big success. After both are done with their own projects, Benedict searches desperately for excuses to assist her in whatever she needs.
That is how he works more than he did in years, almost without noticing. But it is all because he wants to learn more about her—to pick up different details of her like taking small stones on the road.
Sophie loves her subject. She speaks to him about Le Petit Prince and verb conjugations and French poetry. Benedict understands very little of the grammar, but he likes poetry well enough.They fight about Byron. He shows her the Sfumato technique, and he blushes under her fascination, trying it herself and failing in the process.
“You ever wondered how photography changed painting forever?” He asks one early morning, while Sophie is grading the last couple of tests.
She stops for a moment, reflecting on his question. And— and it’s the fact that Sophie is not pretending to listen. She’s not listening out of politeness; she always looks genuinely interested, drinking his words in. An endless hunger for life.
"I hadn't before," she admits. "But I am now."
Benedict grins, staring at the cute way she tilts her head. "Once cameras could capture reality accurately, artists didn't have to." His hands begin moving before he notices, the same way they always do in class. "It let painters experiment with colors and movements. In a way, the camera took over realism, so artists started asking different questions."
He catches himself ramblings and when he returns to reality Sophie is still watching him—listening, her attention fully focused on his words. “Like Cubism or Impressionism, right?”
Benedict beams, straightening his back. “Exactly.”
She genuinely understands, sees the small things that usually do not matter. He has learned that Sophie is curious and attentive and returns her own knowledge of art whenever he shares a piece of little trivia that would be irrelevant to anyone else. And so they are always listening, always keeping information for later. About the beauty of language and art and just anything.
And each other. Treasuring all the small, pointless little things.
They are awfully obvious. Everyone watches in disbelief.
Because it’s just— it is just so evident, isn’t it?
Like how Mr. Bridgerton is the only one who knows she stays late reading her students' papers. He waits for her in the break room and takes coffee from the machine a few minutes before she arrives, so it’s ready for her.
How, somehow, he remembers that she prefers grading with a red pen. (Miss Sophie only mentioned it once, absentmindedly). But the very next day after she lost her favorite one, she found a new red pen waiting on her desk.
How when Philip Cavander cornered her yet again and asked her out at the door of her classroom door, Benedict suddenly appeared. One arm draped around Cavander's shoulders, his smile too bright and his voice too loud, he steered him away while talking about something Sophie couldn't hear. Cavander never bothered her again after that — he never bothered any of the other female teachers, either.
After that, Sophie spends the rest of the week trying to thank the art teacher, but she never quite manages it. She can't hold his gaze for more than a few seconds before looking away. His eyes are too intent, too warm, as though they are asking something of her she doesn't dare to listen to.
Two days later, she learns that Mr. Bridgerton has come down with a fever. To thank him, she sends warm bread and medicine to his apartment. And even after that, she begins leaving small cough drops on his desk and quietly organizing his piles of papers that are always a terrible mess.
Benedict arrives earlier the day after he’s cured not really much to catch up with work, but to be able to see her again. To lose himself in her eyes like he often so does in paintings.
Mr. Bridgerton gathers a small group of art students from first year, setting aside time after school for them to paint together without it being a task or an exam or an obligation. There aren’t many people at first—to the point there are so few students that all of Benedict's siblings show up just to justify the extra hours he'd asked for.
It is not until Sophie begins to help him get the classroom ready, staying hours later after her own work is done and all her assigned classes are gone for the day. Benedict never requests her help, but she’s there before he can fully cringe at the empty classroom. As soon as she joins in helping him, her own students begin to attend his improvised classes and suddenly the place is full and filled with questions and laughter and messy, terrible art.
From the other side of the room, Benedict catches Sophie's eye and mouths a quiet thank you—bowing his head in exaggeration and catching her smiling at him.
Benedict becomes busier than he's been in years. He spends almost every afternoon at school, dark circles beginning to form beneath his cheerful eyes. (He even stops going to the parties he used to never miss). And it really doesn’t matter because Sophie can see very clearly the change in his behavior each afternoon. His joy, how his hands move animatedly whenever he gets the chance to explain or demonstrate a painting on his own. Everyone notices—even Anthony makes sure to thank her when she passes the hallway. Sophie does not wish to take credit for anything, but he insists.
It’s no accident either that Mr. Bridgerton schedules the art club on the same days when Sophie has to stay until late in the day. She will not admit out loud that she likes how they walk together after everything is done—their hands almost brushing, his gaze lingering over hers for too long during shared silences when there’s no small talk to help fill the unsaid words between them.
"Um," Benedict says after the activities are done on Friday. "Wanna grab some coffee?"
Sophie blinks in surprise. His gaze is filled with expectation, his breathing a little bit hard, like he’s nervous. She looks at the window, at night. It is very, very late. Benedict notices and winces.
“Or dinner, maybe.”
“Um.” She presses her lips together, balancing on her feet, avoiding his gaze. He has learned she does this whenever she’s nervous, or shy. It is very endearing. “I don’t know. I… I have a lot of housework.”
It feels like rejection. It definitely is a rejection.
“Of course.” His voice cracks a little, like old wood, like he’s catching the weeps on his throat.
“But I want to, though,” she rushes (she should not rush). “Perhaps tomorrow?” Coffee.”
There is nothing but light when he smiles in surprise at her words. It is the same smile she has seen on him whenever a student or teacher asks him about a painting. It fills her heart with fluttering birds.
“Tomorrow,” he agrees.
Sophie nods, smiling only when he exits the room. He had ready an excuse to invite her out as a thank you for always helping him, but he did not need to, in the end, and he soon learns that Sophie’s kindness is big enough to not expect anything in return, anyways.
"So, um, maybe I will finish earlier today,” Sophie says, a week later, on Wednesday. “If you’re up to it, I mean.”
Benedict looks at her like she's just told him the worst news imaginable. "I..." He winces. "I already promised I'd have dinner with my family."
“Oh,” she drops her shoulders. “It’s okay.”
"It's just..." He rubs the back of his neck. "It's really hard for all of us to be free on the same day. My mother wanted everyone there."
"No, no, of course." Sophie smiles, rosy and gentle and a little forced. "You have to go."
But Benedict doesn't smile back, he looks genuinely distressed. (She almost laughs). "Shit, wait," he blurts out. "Maybe I can cancel."
“Mr. Bridgerton, you—”
“Benedict.”
“-you should not. It’s fine, really, we can always go on another day.”
“I know,” Benedict answers, defeated. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Sophie picks up her bag and the sketchbook. “See you tomorrow?”
“Definitely.”
Benedict barely pays attention during dinner that night—his phone staying beside his plate. More than once, his fingers hover over it, tempted to send Sophie a message, even if he never did before. So he locks his phone instead, his heart full of cement and swollen like a fist.
They are courting. This is what Alfie decides on the break room, very sure of himself. There is no doubt about it—no matter how much Michaela mock his old fashioned use of the word.
But they really aren’t. Benedict invites her over to a pub, and Sophie actually gets dressed in her only pretty outfit to go. But then he texts her that a group of graduates are there, who for sure will recognize both teachers—so they scrap the plan off.
Benedict is desperately looking for other places they could go until Will, John and Colin, who were hanging out there, recognize him through the crowd. They call his name and they decide to order some drinks with him—clueless of the silent despair in his eyes. When he texts Sophie about it, it’s already been two hours, and they decide to let it be for the night.
Next time for sure, it’s what he texts her, minutes later.
Sophie replies with only a small heart. Benedict feels himself trapped in some sort of Greek tragedy.
The days turn into weeks, then in almost a month. Work and tests take over their lives while Sophie worries too much about what people might think. Prom season doesn't help either—Benedict is put in charge of the decorations, spending every afternoon painting a huge backdrop for the gymnasium. Sophie stays busy preparing exams, welcoming first-years, and staying late with students who need extra help. The timing never seems right and so eventually, the people around them decide to interfere.
“You know about prom this year?” Francesca asks one Monday, absentmindedly straightening a stack of sheet music in her hands. “There’s this rule that teachers have to attend with partners.”
Benedict frowns, setting down his coffee as he leans against the counter. “I didn’t know anything about that.”
“Oh! It’s very recent,” she shrugs. “Something about ensuring teachers aren’t left alone during the night. Chaperoning, you know.”
He lifts his eyebrows, barely paying attention.
“Chaperoning?”
“Yes, yes. Supervision, that sort of thing,” she dismisses with her hands. But Benedict’s expression stays unconvinced. “And before you even think of it,” Francesca adds quickly, holding up a hand, “I can't go with you, brother. I’m attending with my wife, obviously,” she remarks, then turns to the shelves, barely sparing him a glance. “But I heard Sophie doesn’t have a partner yet.”
Benedict takes another sip of coffee—hums thoughtfully into his mug. Then, without saying a single word, he sets it down and walks out.
Francesca smiles to herself
It’s the first time they have texted this much. He will never confess he already had her added to his contacts.
bow sophie (18.48): i didn’t know that rule existed
padawan (18.48): me neither, but i had to rush in and ask you
bow sophie (18.50): oh? why me?
padawan (18.50): i am but a mere mortal
padawan (18.50): and i don't question the sacred laws of prom
* bow sophie reacted with 😹 *
padawan (18.51): so…?
bow sophie (18.52): yeah sure, it sounds fun
bow sophie: (18.52): It will be a good break in the middle of work
padawan (18.52): you bet
padawan (18.53): i can’t wait to see you
padawan (18.53): i can’t wait to finally be done with work [Message edited].
bow sophie: (18.57): sorry!! my neighbor rang the well.
bow sophie: (18.58): can’t wait either tbh, I am so so tired
bow sophie: (18.59): I have to take a call, see you next time?
padawan (18.59): no problem, sleep well, miss baek
bow sophie: (18.59): have a good night benedict
* padawan reacted with 😍 *
The event is a huge success. That's why nobody notices Sophie slipping in through the back entrance, smoothing down her dress as she quietly takes it all in—her smile growing before she notices.
Michaela is too busy dancing with the music teacher as though they're celebrating their wedding all over again. On the opposite side of the room, the assistant principal seems entirely occupied talking to Miss Sharma, continuing whatever pointless argument they started over fourth-year algebra exams.
Other teachers are standing around the dancing floor when she moves further into the room. Most are either dancing to the pop music or standing on the side to chatter.
Nobody is aware of her wide smile and neither is she, even, until someone stands next to her pretending to pour soda.
“Miss Baek.”
“Mr. Bridgerton.” Sophie is still looking to the front, to the colorful lights.
She barely glances at him, the tip of his fingers very close to her hand resting on the table. “Is everything under control?” She asks, looking at her over her shoulder, pretending that her heart isn’t a nest of nervous butterflies when he stares at her with such awe and relief.
“It is, it couldn’t be better.” Benedict dismissed with his hand. “You look beautiful, by the way.” He licks his lips, his eyes a misty forest, the ache and affection liquified there. “Being unable to see you these last days felt like a torment.”
Her breath catches a little, blushing, unable to gaze at him—and he feels that he messed it up. "Sorry," he scratches the back of his neck. "Out of line."
Sophie looks at him, and really observes him now. He is wearing his glasses and brown coat—but his hair is a mess. She snorts. He looks a bit older, and she really likes it. She likes him so much.
“No, no…” she shakes her head, smiles shyly, her hands squeezing nervously behind her back. “Me too."
Another silence. Less uncomfortable silence. Benedict looks over the crowd with her, unable to keep his gaze to drift to her again, and when he thinks that she looks lovelier than anything, he decides to risk it again.
"Wanna dance?"
Sophie glances behind them, biting her lower lip. "Should we?"
“Everyone already is.” He gestures toward the dance floor, where even Anthony has somehow ended up dancing with Miss Sharma. "And according to the rules..." He offers an exaggerated bow. "You're my partner all night."
Sophie laughs in fishes of colors. She takes his extended hand and lets him lead her through the crowd.
It is filled with students and teachers. Everyone is busy with their own chatter, so no one pays much attention to them. (Gladly). Benedict guides Sophie toward one of the corners of the floor, away from the busiest part of the room, and the music is slow enough that they move slowly at first. (She still accidentally steps on his foot, twice). Her gaze is low at first, staring to the floor—but slowly follows into the lights, the colors sliding through the glass, and she does not seem to notice her own wide, childlike smile.
"You are enjoying yourself," he states, as if commenting his observations out of a painting.
She looks back at him. Benedict is watching her so closely, very, very focused. There’s a quiet amusement. “You’re always so worried but tonight you’re barely paying attention to people.”
"Perhaps," she responds. “Everyone is having such a wonderful time, and everything is so beautiful.” Sophie closes her eyes to the low humming of the music between the walls. “It is a spectacular night.”
She opens her eyes and he is looking at her again, to her smile. (To her lips). Sophie has to clear her throat.
"The mural is beautiful, by the way," she changes the subject. "You did a wonderful job, Mr. Bridgerton."
He merely shakes his head.
"My class did. I merely stood around pointing at empty spaces on the wall."
"You give yourself too little credit."
"I've learned not to take too much of it." Benedict smiles, faint. "And instructing people has always been easier to me than making something of my own."
She tilts her head. "But you like it, right? Teaching art?"
"I guess I do," He shrugs. "I enjoy guiding kids to see that they are capable of creating. I like seeing them become proud of themselves." His smile fades just a little. "It's just... not where I imagined I'd end up, I guess. But I lost years trying for art school so my brother put me on here because it’s…”
"Easier?"
“Well… It is, isn’t it?” Sophie shakes her head, smiling gently. He smiles back, apologetic. “You really do like teaching, uh?”
“Yes, I love it,” she says. Her eyes wrinkle like little chandeliers when she does it. It’s endearing, and she’s so lovely. “I like learning, but even more teaching, or rather helping. It gives me a sense of purpose.”
"And you're wonderful at it."
She blushes. "When I first started here, I was terrified. I kept thinking I would mess it up.”
Benedict snorts, as if what she just confessed is nothing but absurd.
"You won everyone’s hearts immediately. Even m—" He hesitates, then pauses, shaking his head as his eyes are filled with little stars. "I'm glad you came here."
Her smile is a pink lily. They keep dancing. The slow ballad turns into a pop song neither recognizes, but it echoes through the walls, and Benedict immediately picks up the pace without warning. His palm cups the small of her back and spins her around the dance floor. One, two, three times, until they’re twirling without pause and Sophie unravels into a loud laughter that turns some heads.
Benedict grins at her, all teeth and proud of his work.
When they finally slow to a stop, Sophie is still catching her breath. "Where did you learn to dance so well?"
"My mother," he exhales, laughing quietly with her. "She made my brothers and me go to our sisters's dance lessons. They forced us to practice with them after that, only Colin loved it. Eloise hated it the most."
Sophie giggles. "Wait. How old were you?"
"Fifteen, I think."
“That’s adorable,” she snorts. "So you spent your teenage years getting dragged to dance classes?"
"Against my will."
"Hm, I don't actually believe that."
"You shouldn't."
They laugh together, and Benedict notices how the colors become soft over her, watercolors swimming through her eyes. His forehead rests against hers without noticing, and everything becomes too dangerous, too close. Sophie shuts her eyes gently, to feel him over her. He stops breathing, she stops breathing.
And suddenly and without warning, the music cuts out. The gym falls into complete darkness and a chorus of gasps and groans rises from the crowd.
"It's okay!" Anthony's voice carries through the room. "Everyone stay where you are. We'll have it back in a second." He turns to Benedict. "Brother, go check the panel in the left wing, It's probably just a tripped breaker. And Sophie, if you could go with him? If we need flashlights or anything, it'll be faster with two people."
“Of course.”
They move through the dark. Sophie holds his hand.
The hallway is quiet and barely lighted by the glowing moonlight seeping through the wide glass. Benedict finds the tripped breaker and pushes it back into place, and when the lights flicker once before the school brightens again, they can hear the cheers from below the room.
Sophie gives a long sigh of relief. "I’m glad it only lasted a minute."
"You'd think we'd get through one school event without something breaking," he smirks. “Just enough to be interrupted right in the middle of our excellent dance lesson."
Sophie laughs to his face of disbelief.
"Excellent? I would rather say that your instructions were decent at best."
Benedict lifts his eyebrows, smiling in amusement as he crosses his arms.
“Decent?”
"Just barely, you were a little slow at times." She smiles. "I guess that's how I ended up stepping on you."
"Maybe I was distracted,” he murmurs, taking a step forward.
"Oh?" She tilts her head. "By what?”
"Well..." His smile is slow, honey, leaning in a little. "That's a very nice dress."
Sophie smiles despite how her heart splashes around the corners, her feet slowly moving backwards.
"I see. What do you like about it?"
“Well, actually,” he leans down more until she’s trapped, just enough to feel his breath against the corner of her lips. “Silver happens to be my favorite color.”
Sophie closes her eyes, a breathy laugh escaping her. “I thought you said it was green.”
The ghost of his hands is around her waist now, his mouth almost covering hers.
"I guess I just like how it looks on you."
Sophie doesn’t have the patience anymore, and so it is her who kisses him first. And it feels like a merciless burning—drowning in the middle of a pool. She grabs the lapels of his jacket and pulls him down to her lips to shut him up already. She’s too busy to bite his smile off him to feel Benedict move them until she’s pressed against the closed door of the room.
His hands are around her back, pressing her completely against him. Her own hands move from his chest to his hair, touching in a demand that contradicts her usual silent nature and Benedict just loves it. He lets himself drown away in the shifting currents of her hands, and in those hands is where he finds the storm—letting her nails sink from the back of his neck to his hair, gripping there harshly, until Benedict groans contently to the faint pain.
She can only feel the way his tongue skims her lower lip and hers touches each of his teeth in turn, the way his spine arches to cover her. (He's so, so tall). The music is ebbing from beyond the building, the lights outside faintly seeping through the room, and they try to find each other in the dark.
Benedict decides that he will love the way she kisses him forever and ever.
The rumors resurrect again.
A couple of students state that they caught Mr. Bridgerton hanging out at the usual pub he frequented back when he used to go with his many dates. And around the same time, Miss Baek leaves town for the entire winter break to attend her stepsister's wedding. So, the two of them aren't seen together once. Francesca feels her efforts to be useless, and the collective conclusion is that the French teacher simply turned him down and he just returned to his old, unhealthy habits out of depression.
A tragic end, truly.
There is purple and red on her neck.
Sophie doesn't mean for it to be visible at all, but she tugs at her scarf when the room gets too warm and Michaela catches sight of it.
"Congratulations," she smiles. "Finally went out and found yourself a date?"
Sophie just slaps a hand on her neck, claiming it's just a mosquito bite. Michaela does not believe her at all, of course, but it doesn’t matter. Sophie makes sure her neck stays covered the rest of the day, but one of her students, Hyacinth, princess of the school, happens to notice it. And of course she is not shy about her own enthusiasm—being already aware of the rumors and keeping her eye on her favorite teacher (according to her own words) all this time.
There must be a boyfriend, she squeals excitedly. He must be a gentleman if he has the serious, organized Miss Baek this moonstruck.
Sophie only pretends to linger over some papers. To hell with it—she will let the rumors be fed for a while.
“Yes, he is. He treats me very nicely.”
Her words aren’t sugary, but her voice is. It is the first time she shows herself like this here, laughing timidly and happily, like she too is a teenager. This only accentuates the rumors. Miss Baek has a boyfriend! All over the place.
Sophie brings herself not to panic about it for the first time, but Hyacinth gives a long, disappointed sigh.
“Oh, my poor brother! This will surely break him.”
But at the upcoming school festival, Mr. Bridgerton and Miss Baek are in charge of teaching the first-years to dance.
They go through the steps together. Their smiles come easy, blooming. Miss Sophie is clear as she explains, kind and patient as she always is, in her black hair tied into a neat low bun and her loose white t-shirt over wide black trousers. Mr. Bridgerton is tall enough that she has to hold onto him for dear life as he just smiles down at her through his glasses, his dark hair as tousled as ever. They stand close in a some sort of waltz that only Mr. Bridgerton knows well. Benedict explains beside her until he suddenly breaks his composure and spins her back, making her squeal and the room burst into laughter. Miss Sophie laughs too, caught off guard, her nose turning a little red as her nails grip his arms a bit too tightly.
Then they try to get serious again. (Mostly from his part). They give one last demonstration, more focused on each other than on the class.
Oh, and they both seem to be wearing matching white Levi's t-shirts. Some wonder if it's only a coincidence. They conclude that it is.
Even if he was always late to his own classes, Mr. Bridgerton was never absent for more than a whole week. So the day the art lessons get suspended because Benedict calls sick, everyone is worried. Even more worried that Miss Sophie Baek is also absent for half an hour, running late to her own teaching class for the first time in her life.
When Sophie rushes into the classroom, breathing harsh and fixing her hair as she apologizes, she believes nobody notices. But they do. She straightens herself at the front of the room.
“Good morning, class. Are there any questions before we begin?”
A hand shoots up immediately. “Is Mr. Bridgerton dying?”
“No, Rochelle, he just has a cold.”
Her voice comes out between amused and exhausted. But everyone can see it. The medicines peeking through Miss Baek’s bag, her eyes lingering on the phone for too long—worried under her big pair of glasses. She even snickers at her screen while texting something back.
Then Sophie clears her throat and looks back at the class.
"Right. Let's continue."
Date nights become a routine with coffee and having dinner at the only gas station open nearby and reviewing French poetry for the upcoming project. (Well, mostly from her part, as Benedict rests his chin on his palm and listens to her with the attention of a student and a slow, moonstruck smile on his face—his heartbeat evident on his eyes as if all the affection in the world is liquified there). He knows that he could take her to the place he owns, to a fancy, elegant outing. But this is theirs—these ordinary things, the long talks into the night and his terrible French and fixing kites for their youngest students.
But they do go home. (Hers, mostly). Coming back to each other without the formality, without the proper protocol. No lessons, no excuses. It’s the blurry kisses and his words insistent on her skin. Sophie could shut him up with the biting of his lips, mean and impatient—just the way he likes it. But she lets him. She lets Benedict pour all his heart out and call for her into the dark, begging her, reaching for her, until she too responds with words and all the love is evident before the morning.
He remembers the pills and rehab and failed therapy sessions. He remembers his anxiety during his first days when his brother accommodated him on the job, despite using his confidence and paper-charm to hide it away. He remembers finding the security and the contentment of this life that he did not choose, but he had no other option. He remembers giving up, even if he was happy. He remembers feeling out of place even if he was always loved.
Benedict remembers Sophie bringing his tired, overworked heart back to life—when she made him remember what truly is to feel joy.
He thinks to himself that he wants to sink that feeling again. Fully and without shame. He is utterly happy—but it’s still cloudy. Benedict concludes this when he stares at the Princess Leia he drew framed at her living room wall. He sets the coffee machine and rummages through Sophie’s cupboards. It’s so easy, he grins, to see through himself with so much clarity now that she’s here. Maybe not so easy, but there’s no fear anymore.
Benedict pours out two cups of coffee when Sophie walks in, sleepy and grumpy, like a newborn cat. “Good morning,” he leans in, kissing her long enough for her to feel the taste of him so fully it awakens her, and short enough that he hands her the coffee in her favorite mug.
When she breaks away, Sophie already knows he has made his decision—she had known long ago, even before he came to the conclusion on his own.
It drizzles outside her window. They sit by the table and work in silence together, tasting the flavor of the very near end coming at them. They grade papers together and finish their reports. Later, Benedict draws anatomy and eyes, sketching them based on her as his only model, and Sophie watches him draw until she falls asleep over his shoulder.
When Sophie began working here during the first months, she was different. She wore cheap suits and her glasses were too big. Back then, she tried to hide her enthusiasm under a stern look—trying too hard to impress and be taken seriously. But he could see the joy behind every one of her actions. She was stubborn, but Benedict still thought she was darling.
He had liked her the first time he found her sitting on his desk, accidentally believing it was hers, nipping at her red pen and fixing the order of his papers because according to her exasperated voice, his organizational skills were an absolute crime. He had liked her when Michaela introduced them—and his heart fluttered because he found that the pretty, very-busy girl he found invading his spot and shaking his heart was actually the new French teacher. He had liked her during the two truths and a lie game. He had liked her when she called him a slothful do-nothing, without sparing him a second glance, at their first every disagreement at work. He had liked her when she accepted his coffee as an apology and she ended up giggling at his lame jokes, failing to look unimpressed.
Benedict liked her not just for who she was in her spirit, but for how he began to like himself again when he became aware of his feelings for her. There was nothing like this before in his whole life. And Sophie really does not remind him of anybody else he met in the past. She is unique—there’s no one else before, and nobody after.
It is as if everything was always meant to be just like this, before he met her, before he was even himself at all.
Mr. Bridgerton quits at the beginning of August. The disappointment is palpable for several months—whenever people of his class ask the reasons of his sudden absence, the only answers are that he had to move back to London for unknown reasons. Miss Sophie Baek barely reacts—she is not as visibly affected as some expect her to be. The general conclusion is that it didn’t work out, or they broke up, and if they weren’t together, she rejected him and he couldn’t take it anymore.
Even part of the staff that also happens to be his family hardly speaks about it. They are calm, and they keep the work, even if there is a melancholy in their movements. The weeks turn into months, then into a full year. Hyacinth is at Anthony's office when it's been one year, math papers and books scattered all over the table, when she finally asks him.
"Do you think Benedict could have kept living here, and still be happy?”
Her brother smiles, a little sadly. “No.”
Sophie is too busy organizing a school trip to the local art museum to think much about anything else. There are schedules to fix and students to supervise. Through the trip, the oldest people from her class point at the works of art and recite whatever Mr. Bridgerton taught them. Sophie stands quiet and listens, as if it’s her turn to learn now.
And she is so happy. She wouldn’t trade this for anything else. Benedict knew this, and they still survived.
The group moves to the next píece. A replica of Lady with an Ermine. Sophie lingers a little longer than everyone else. Sfumato. She thinks about colors and shadows and kisses in the dark. Then she stops thinking at all, turns to the right, and keeps walking.
Back on the bus, Sophie takes the seat next to the window on the front. The chatter around her is lively and excited, and she thinks she can hear Kate gently help a group of girls on the back of the seats. Exhaustion seeps on her bones but she smiles, happy and satisfied with her work.
When the noise dies, she remembers one last thing to do, pulling out her phone.
“I already miss you terribly too,” he says when he answers after just one beep. She can hear the wind and the loud crowd over his side.
Sophie rolls her eyes, then she looks around, checking that everybody is asleep, and lowers her voice. “I forgot to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“Good luck with the entrance exam.” she says. “Call me after you’re done.”
“Well if I fail, third time’s the charm, as they say.”
“You will ace it, Benedict,” Sophie states as if she has done the math many times. “I’m certain.”
She hears him laugh, and Sophie wishes she could see his smile. “I believe you,” Benedict says, genuine. “You know, you always bring me good luck. I should carry you around in my pocket. You’re small enough.”
Sophie rolls her eyes again.
“I hate you.”
“Too bad, since I love you.”
She laughs this time, and she knows he’s smiling wide and all-teeth at the sound. His phone loses signal quickly at the airport, so they hang up. Sophie settles on her seat and closes her eyes. The small silver stone on the ring adorning her right hand catches the morning light.