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The rehearsal room smelled of stale coffee, hairspray, and the thick, suffocating tension that had defined the last six weeks of the production. Benedict Bridgerton, currently leaning against a velvet prop chair with a smirk that he used specifically to get under Sophie Baek’s skin, flicked a stray hair from his jacket.
"Again?" Sophie asked. Her voice was tight enough to snap, a sharp contrast to the soft gown she wore for her role as the lead. She had been standing in the same spot for three hours, her heels digging into the wooden floorboards, her patience worn down to a nub.
"Again," the Director sighed from the shadows of the house seats, rubbing his eyes. "And this time, Sophie, look at him as if you actually want to be in the same room. Benedict, try not to look like you’re waiting for the bus."
Sophie let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "I am acting, Ma'am. My character is supposedly blinded by love. If I look at him any harder, I’ll be committing assault, not romance."
Benedict laughed, a low, smooth sound that made the hair on the back of Sophie’s neck stand up. "Always a professional, aren't you, Baek? Try to keep the venom out of your voice for five seconds. It’s a period drama, not a street fight."
"If you changed your blocking once without telling me, I wouldn't have to defend my space," she countered, stepping into his personal bubble. They were so close now that Benedict could see the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes—eyes that usually sparked with genuine dislike whenever he improvised a line.
"Should we just leave them here overnight?" John muttered to the lighting tech from the wings, already reaching for his keys. "It’s either that, or we give them the keys to the theatre and let them destroy each other in peace. I’m exhausted."
"Again!" the Director roared.
The cast was a collection of people who had long ago stopped pretending to be surprised by the sheer intensity of the two leads. There was Alfie, the gossip, who lived for the drama and kept a mental, and sometimes literal, log of their "accidental" lingering touches. Hazel, the veteran actress and unofficial cast therapist, watched them with a knowing, tired smile, perpetually prepared to intervene before a full-blown argument broke out.
And then there was John, the stage manager who had seen too much and was currently trying to negotiate a raise solely based on the emotional labor of managing Benedict and Sophie.
"They're doing it again," Alfie whispered to Hazel during a brief water break.
Benedict was currently critiquing Sophie’s posture for the third time that day, while Sophie was busy correcting Benedict’s pronunciation of a French phrase he’d butchered.
"It’s not even acting anymore," Hazel replied, shaking her head. "It’s a personality trait. They’re like two magnets held apart by sheer stubbornness."
"You know," Alfie called out, loud enough for the whole room to hear, "normal people just go on a date instead of arguing about iambic pentameter for an hour."
"We are not dating," Benedict and Sophie said in perfect, icy unison, not even bothering to look away from each other.
"We are professionals," Benedict added, turning back to Sophie with a glare that felt more like a caress. "Which is something you’d understand if you didn't treat every script like it was a holy text that could never be improved upon."
The director, a formidable woman named Lady Danbury, arrived with a mischievous glint in her eye. She looked at the bickering pair, then at the exhausted cast. "No scripts today. Everyone, on your feet. We’re doing the Alphabet Game. One sentence each, in order, from A to Z. Start with the person you least want to be trapped with."
She looked pointedly at the two of them. "Benedict. Sophie. You’re up."
"Lucky me," Benedict muttered, his tone dripping with fake indifference.
"Don't flatter yourself," Sophie snapped, crossing her arms.
"A," Benedict began, his voice dropping an octave as he moved closer, violating the standard rehearsal distance. "Acting like you don't care is getting old, Sophie."
"B," Sophie fired back, refusing to step away even as he closed the distance. "Because you insist on making every single scene about your own ego."
"C," he leaned down, his breath hitching against her ear. "Chemistry is something you’re clearly terrified of."
"D," she retorted, her voice shaking slightly, though she hid it well. "Don't ever assume you know what I’m terrified of."
The room had gone completely silent. They weren't just playing a game; they were having a conversation they had been avoiding for months.
"E," Benedict whispered, his eyes locked on her mouth. "Everyone else knows exactly what we are doing."
"F," Sophie swallowed, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Forget what everyone else thinks; it doesn't change the fact that you’re infuriating."
"G," he said, his hand coming up to hover, just inches from her waist. "Go on, admit it—you hate me because you can't stay away from me."
The room was holding its breath. Even the Director had stopped pacing.
"H," Sophie murmured, closing the gap until she could feel the heat radiating from him. "How can I stay away when you’re always right in my space?"
"I," Benedict said, his voice barely a breath now. "I only stay close because I’m committed to the scene."
"J," Sophie whispered, her eyes searching his. "Just stop pretending."
They were so close now, a literal hair’s breadth between them, that the entire cast could see the tension vibrating between their bodies. The space between them felt like a live wire.
"K," Benedict breathed, his hand finally dropping to her waist. It wasn't a rehearsal move. It was firm, grounding, and possessive.
"L," Sophie gasped, her own hands finding the lapels of his jacket, gripping them tightly. "Long enough have we pretended that this is just for the stage."
"M," he continued, his eyes darkening. "Maybe it’s time we acknowledge what's actually happening."
"N," she whispered, her head tilting up. "Nothing has ever felt this real."
The room was frozen. Alfie was leaning forward, his mouth hanging open. John was holding his breath, watching the "professional" actors succumb to the reality they had been denying for years. Hazel was smiling, a look that said, Finally.
"O," Benedict murmured, his face inches from hers. "Only a fool would ignore this."
"P," Sophie finished, her voice a mere ghost of a sound. "Please."
The room felt like it was spinning. The air was charged, thick with the weight of every argument, every lingering look, and every "professional" excuse they had ever used.
"Q," Benedict started, but he didn't finish the letter. Instead, he closed the final fraction of an inch between them.
The kiss was everything their arguments had been: intense, hungry, and desperate. It wasn't the practiced, elegant kiss of a period drama; it was messy and urgent. Sophie pulled him closer, her fingers tangling in his hair, and Benedict groaned, his hands sliding up to cup her face as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
For a moment, the world didn't exist. There was no stage, no Director, no gossip-hungry cast. There was only the feeling of his lips against hers, the scent of his cologne, and the overwhelming relief of finally stopping the charade.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, eyes wide and pupils blown. The silence in the room was absolute, until a muffled sound came from the back. It was Alfie, trying to stifle a cheer.
Benedict and Sophie jumped apart, looking at the room full of people like deer in headlights.
"Right," Benedict cleared his throat, his face flushing a deep, brilliant crimson. He couldn't stop looking at her mouth.
"Right," Sophie agreed, clutching her hands to stop them from trembling. She looked like she wanted to run, or perhaps kiss him again.
"Well," Lady Danbury said, clapping her hands slowly, a triumphant grin on her face. "I think that covers the letter Q. And perhaps the rest of the alphabet as well."
The room erupted in laughter and applause. Hazel was beaming, and John looked like he was about to weep with joy that the "Will-they-won't-they" era of his life was officially over.
Benedict looked at Sophie, his gaze softening into something entirely un-ironic. "We're... we're still going to have to finish the alphabet, aren't we?"
Sophie smiled, a small, genuine smile that reached her eyes. "Unfortunately."
He laughed, a bright, real sound that surprised them both. "Same rehearsal tomorrow?"
"You can count on it," she replied.
As they walked out of the theatre together, the rest of the cast exchanged knowing looks. They were finally together, and the "professional" masks were gone.
Alfie caught up to them at the exit. "So... wedding invitations? Are we going to see those soon, or should I wait until the end of the production?"
Benedict didn't even try to lie. He just reached out, took Sophie’s hand in his, and looked at Alfie with a grin that said he couldn't care less about the gossip. "Shut up, Alfie."
Sophie laughed, pulling Benedict toward the door. "Ignore him. Let’s get dinner."
And as they walked into the night, hand in hand, the entire cast collectively exhaled. The tension was gone, replaced by something much better. The scene was over, but the story had finally, truly, begun.