Chapter Text
Benedict Bridgerton broke his arm doing something profoundly unheroic.
Not rescuing a child.
Not defending a stranger.
Not even art-related drama.
Nohe slipped on the last step of his own townhouse staircase while arguing with himself about whether toast counted as dinner.
Now he lay sprawled on the sofa like a fallen Roman statue, arm in a sling, pride in traction, scowl firmly in place.
“This is humiliating,” he announced to the ceiling.
The ceiling, wisely, offered no rebuttal.
The door opened an hour later, and the universe, clearly feeling guilty, sent Penelope.
Correction.
Sent Penelope.
Benedict heard the click of heels first. Then the door shut. Then silence. The sort of silence that means something terribleor wonderfulhas entered the room.
“Ben,” she said, far too sweetly, “don’t panic.”
He turned his head.
His soul left his body. Briefly. Politely. Then returned with questions.
Penelope stood there in a nurse’s costume that was technically decent, historically inaccurate, and morally aggressive. White. Fitted. A red cross placed with mischievous precision. Stockings. Heels. And a tiny cap perched atop her curls like it knew exactly what sins it was enabling.
“…I may be concussed,” he said weakly.
She smiled. Slowly. “You’re not.”
“I should call a doctor.”
“I am the doctor.”
“No you’re not.”
She pulled a clipboard from behind her back. “I have paperwork.”
He groaned and covered his face with his good hand. “You planned this.”
“Oh, very much so.”
She crossed the room, heels clicking with deliberate rhythm, then stopped far too close. She peered down at him, eyes bright with amusement.
“So,” she said, “how’s the patient feeling?”
“Threatened.”
“Excellent. Now let's assess the injury.”
She leaned in to examine the sling, fingers brushing his chest accidentally on purpose. Benedict hissed.
“Careful.”
“I am being careful,” she said. “You’re the fragile one now.”
She adjusted the sling with exaggerated seriousness, tugging just enough to make him flinch.
“Penelope.”
“Yes, darling?”
“If this is revenge for that time I ate the last pastry”
“This is revenge for many things,” she said serenely.
She bustled off to the kitchen, narrating the entire time like a daytime medical drama.
“Patient is sulky. Prognosis poor. Requires soup, water, and constant admiration.”
She returned with a bowl and sat beside him, spoon poised.
“I can feed myself.”
“No you can’t.”
“My arm is broken, not my dignity.”
She raised a brow. “Questionable.”
She held the spoon to his lips and waited.
He sighed. Opened his mouth. Ate the soup.
“…This is humiliating,” he muttered again.
“You already said that,” she replied. “Now say thank you, Nurse Penelope.”
He glared. She smiled wider.
“Thank you,” he grumbled.
She beamed. “Good boy.”
He choked on the next spoonful.
“Oh don’t be dramatic,” she said, patting his chest. “Drama raises the blood pressure.”
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Immensely.”
She checked his temperature. Twice. Slowly. Leaning close enough that her hair brushed his jaw.
“Still warm,” she murmured. “Shame.”
“Why is that a shame?”
She tapped her chin. “Means you’re not sick enough to be admitted overnight.”
His eyes flicked to her costume. “You planned an overnight?”
“Don’t rush the plot.”
She perched on the arm of the sofa, legs crossed, clipboard resting on her thigh like a prop in a very convincing fantasy.
“Any pain?” she asked.
“Only emotional.”
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Eleven.”
She leaned closer. “I’ll need to monitor you closely.”
“How closely?”
“Very.”
She stood, finally removing the nurse’s cap and placing it gently on his chest.
“For now,” she said, “rest. Hydration. Obedience.”
“And if I misbehave?”
She bent and kissed his forehead.
“Then I’ll have to prescribe… stricter care.”
She straightened, smiled sweetly, and walked away, heels clicking, leaving Benedict staring after her arm broken, spirits lifted, utterly doomed.
He sighed, grinning despite himself.
“If I break my leg tomorrow,” he called after her, “will you come back?”
From the kitchen, her voice floated back, cheerful and smug.
“Oh, Benedict don't test me. I love a repeat patient.”
And honestly?
He absolutely would. 😌
—
Benedict woke the next morning with three certainties:
One his arm still hurts.
Two his pride was still bruised.
Three Penelope was being entirely too quiet.
Silence, in his household, was never peace. It was foreboding. It was the calm before the storm. It was the sort of quiet that suggested someone was plotting.
He shuffled downstairs, sling snug against his chest, muttering to himself like a wounded hero in a very dull epic.
“Penelope?” he called.
No answer.
He followed the scent first coffee, toast, and something unmistakably Penelope. Warm. Familiar.
Then he stepped into the kitchen.
And promptly forgot how lungs worked.
She stood at the counter, barefoot, bathed in morning light like some sort of domestic siren. She wore one of his shirts and he recognized it instantly. Crisp white. Button-down. The good one. The one he usually saved for gallery openings and important conversations.
On her, it was indecent.
Too long in the sleeves. Too short everywhere else. Buttoned just enough to be polite and not one inch more. White fabric against her skin like a deliberate provocation.
Nothing else.
Absolutely nothing else.
Benedict froze.
Penelope turned, mug in hand, utterly unbothered by the havoc she was wreaking.
“Oh,” she said lightly. “You’re up.”
He stared.
She sipped her coffee.
He continued staring.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, innocence dripping from every syllable.
“Yes,” he croaked. “Several things. Most of them fatal.”
She glanced down at herself, as if only just noticing. “Oh this? I spilled tea on my clothes.”
“That shirt is white.”
“Yes.”
“And thin.”
“Yes.”
“And mine.”
“Also yes.”
He swallowed. Pain shot through his arm. Through his spine. Through regions of his soul previously untouched by medical science.
“I am injured,” he reminded her weakly.
She smiled. Slow. Satisfied. “I know.”
“I’m not supposed to be under stress.”
She crossed the kitchen, stopping directly in front of him, close enough that he could smell the coffee on her breath, close enough that the hem of the shirt brushed his thigh.
“I’m being very supportive,” she said. “I made breakfast.”
“You’re trying to kill me.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“I slipped on stairs yesterday.”
“And today,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “you’re upright. Miracles abound.”
She reached up, careful of his sling and adjusted the collar of the shirt like she belonged there. Like it had always been hers.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“It’s my shirt.”
“Yes,” she said again, delighted. “That’s why I chose it.”
He closed his eyes. Briefly. Reverently.
“You realize,” he said, “that you cannot leave the house now.”
“Good.”
“I cannot sit.”
“Tragic.”
“I cannot think.”
She patted his chest. “Thinking is overrated.”
She turned back to the stove, utterly victorious, hips swaying just enough to qualify as premeditated.
Benedict leaned against the doorframe, defeated, smiling despite himself.
“I’m calling it,” he said. “This is attempted murder.”
She looked over her shoulder, grin bright and unapologetic.
“Relax,” she said. “If I wanted you dead, I’d wear the blue one.”
He laughed helplessly, affectionately, utterly ruined.
“Yes,” he muttered. “I’m definitely not surviving this recovery.”
~~~~~~~~
Penelope left like a criminal fleeing the scene.
Kiss to his cheek. Hand on his good shoulder. Smile far too satisfied for a woman who had just committed several visual felonies in a white shirt.
“I have errands,” she said brightly, already halfway to the door.
“You cannot abandon an injured man,” Benedict protested.
“I’m not,” she replied. “I arranged help.”
That was when dread crept in.
“Penelope,” he said slowly, “define help.”
She only smiled. A wicked, affectionate smile. “They’re family.”
The door closed.
The universe inhaled.
Ten minutes later, the front door burst open.
“BENEDICT BRIDGERTON!”
Eloise’s voice hit the walls like a thrown object.
Hyacinth followed immediately. “IS IT TRUE YOU WERE DEFEATED BY A STAIRCASE?”
Benedict groaned and sank deeper into the sofa.
“This is punishment,” he muttered. “I’ve sinned.”
They appeared in the room together Eloise armed with opinions, Hyacinth armed with enthusiasm. Both armed with eyes far too observant for a man in a sling.
Eloise took one look at him. “Oh, you look pathetic.”
Hyacinth gasped. “He does! Like a wounded poet.”
“I am injured,” Benedict said stiffly.
“Yes,” Eloise said. “And somehow smug. Why are you smug?”
Hyacinth sniffed the air. “Why does it smell like coffee and scandal?”
Benedict said nothing.
They exchanged a glance.
“Oh,” Eloise said slowly. “Penelope.”
Hyacinth’s eyes went wide. “Did she nurse you?”
“No.”
“Did she nurse you?” Hyacinth pressed.
“She wore a costume,” he admitted.
Eloise clapped once. Sharp. Delighted. “I knew it.”
Eloise rolled up her sleeves. “Right. On to our duties.”
“I didn’t agree to this,” Benedict said.
“You broke your arm,” Eloise replied. “You forfeited autonomy.”
They immediately set about “helping.”
Hyacinth fluffed pillows far too aggressively. Eloise rearranged the room purely out of spite.
“Do you need water?” Hyacinth asked.
“Yes, please.”
She handed him an empty glass.
Eloise smirked. “Character building.”
They fed him lunch like he was a toddler with poor motor skills, narrating the entire process.
“Open wide,” Hyacinth sang.
“I hate both of you.”
Eloise leaned down. “No you don’t. You’re glowing.”
“I am not glowing.”
“You are,” Hyacinth said. “You look… satisfied.”
Benedict scowled. “I’m in pain.”
“Mmm,” Eloise said. “Pain with benefits.”
They settled in like vultures with tea.
“So,” Eloise continued casually, “how long until Penelope comes back?”
“I don’t know.”
Hyacinth grinned. “We should stay until then.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh yes,” Eloise said. “Doctor’s orders.”
Benedict sighed, resigned.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Benedict drifted back to consciousness the way one does after pain medicationslow, foggy, and vaguely suspicious of reality.
Something was heavy.
Warm.
Breathing.
He frowned without opening his eyes. This is it, he thought. This is how I go. Crushed by regret.
Then it sniffed.
He opened one eye.
Directly in front of his face sat a black-and-white cocker spaniel puppy, compact, fuzzy, and intensely judgmental, perched squarely on his chest like a gargoyle assigned by fate.
The puppy stared.
Benedict stared back.
They assessed one another in silence.
“…You’re new,” Benedict whispered.
The puppy tilted its head.
“You are very bold for someone who fits in a teacup.”
The puppy blinked slowly, unimpressed, tail giving one small wagas if to say this is my house now.
Benedict exhaled. “I’m injured.”
The puppy leaned forward and licked his nose.
“Rude.”
Then movement.
Benedict’s gaze slid past the puppy.
And his soul exited his body for the second time in twenty-four hours.
Penelope stood near the window, phone to her ear, sunlight pouring in like it had conspired with her personally. She wore a blue bikini top the sort that suggested oceans, poor decisions, and absolutely no regard for a man’s blood pressure and shorts so short they were essentially a rumor.
Her hair was piled in a messy bun on top of her head, wisps escaping, skin warm and golden, entirely too real.
Benedict made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a prayer.
The puppy turned to look at him, mildly alarmed.
Penelope didn’t notice. She was pacing, barefoot, entirely comfortable in a way that should have been illegal.
“Yeah, Anthony,” she was saying, casual as sin, “I don’t know, Eloise called me and said the air conditioner went off and it’s bloody hot in here.”
Benedict tried to sit up.
The puppy planted itself more firmly on his chest.
Traitor.
“Yeah, he’s asleep,” Penelope continued. “I opened the windows, and as soon as he wakes up I’m going to bring him to my flat. It’s too hot for him to sleep here.”
When he wakes up, she said.
Benedict made another sound. Louder this time.
Penelope paused mid-step.
She turned.
Their eyes met.
Benedict panicked.
He attempted to sit up properly, forgetting tragically that he had a broken arm, a drugged brain, and a small dog using him as furniture.
He tipped sideways.
“BENEDICT”
He flailed.
The puppy hopped off at the last second, offended.
Penelope lunged forward, catching him with one hand on his shoulder, the other braced against the couch.
“Absolutely not,” she scolded, phone still pressed to her ear. “Do not fall. I will not explain that to a doctor.”
“Yeah sorry he’s awake now.”
Anthony’s muffled voice buzzed through the speaker.
Penelope sighed. “No, he’s not being too whiny. Eloise said he took some pain meds, so it must have been really painful.”
Benedict, now upright and staring at her like a man seeing color for the first time, croaked, “Penelope.”
She held up a finger at him. Wait.
“Yeah, I would appreciate it,” she said into the phone. “Okay, thanks, Anthony.”
She hung up.
Silence fell.
The puppy sat between them, tail wagging, delighted by the tension.
Penelope looked down at Benedict.
Benedict looked up at Penelope.
His brain short-circuited.
“…You’re trying to kill me,” he said hoarsely.
She blinked. “What?”
“That,” he gestured vaguely with his good hand, “is not appropriate attire near an injured man.”
She glanced down at herself, utterly unbothered. “It’s hot.”
“That is my point.”
She smiled. Soft. Fond. “You took pain meds. You’re not allowed opinions.”
He swallowed. “Is that my dog?”
“Our dog,” she corrected lightly. “He decided you were a chair.”
The puppy barked once in agreement.
Penelope reached out and brushed Benedict’s hair back from his forehead, checking him with practiced gentleness.
“You okay?” she asked.
He nodded, dazed. “I think so.”
“Good,” she said. “Because you’re coming home with me. This place is an oven.”
He smiled despite himself. “You’re kidnapping me.”
“Yes,” she said cheerfully.
She straightened, grabbed her keys, then looked back at him with that familiar, wicked warmth.
“And Benedict?”
“Yes?”
She nodded toward the puppy. “Try not to fall asleep again. He’s very possessive.”
The puppy climbed back onto Benedict’s chest.
Benedict sighed, laughing softly.
“I am never surviving this relationship,” he murmured.
Penelope grinned.
“Good.”
—
A few days into recovery, Benedict reached a firm conclusion:
Penelope’s flat was lovely.
Penelope herself was perfection.
But his own place was bigger, , and most importantly had furniture that already knew his suffering.
So they migrated back and forth like civilized adults who absolutely did not want to admit they preferred his couch.
Jupiter, however, had opinions.
The black-and-white cocker spaniel puppy appointed himself Benedict’s shadow, alarm system, emotional support creature, andon several occasionshis jailer. If Benedict shifted too much, Jupiter sighed dramatically. If Benedict tried to stand too fast, Jupiter barked like a whistle blown by fate.
They were bonded.
The medicine, on the other hand, was a menace.
Benedict hated prescription medication. Always had. It turned his brain into a soup he hadn’t ordered. Which was how mortifyingly he spent an entire afternoon convinced Penelope had mysteriously acquired Jupiter out of thin air.
“You didn’t tell me you had a dog,” he’d said earnestly.
Penelope had stared at him. “Benedict. You gave him to me. For my birthday. In April.”
He’d blinked. Long pause. “I… did?”
“Yes. You cried.”
“…Did I name him?”
“You named him Jupiter because you said he had ‘the soul of a Roman god and the ears of a poet.’”
Benedict had covered his face with his good hand. “I’m never taking this again.”
True to his word, he skipped the next dose. Pain be damned.
Penelope, meanwhile, took care of him with ruthless devotion and an alarming wardrobe strategy.
Today’s offense was a summer dress.
Light fabric. Soft color. Low cut. Entirely decent. Entirely lethal.
Benedict sat on the sofa, Jupiter tucked against his side, staring openly because well he could.
Penelope caught him.
“Do I have something on my face?” she asked sweetly.
“No,” he replied honestly. “You have something on your chest.”
She laughed and swatted his shoulder gently. “Behave.”
“I am injured,” he said. “This is recreational looking.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to the kitchen just as the front door opened.
“Ben!” Gregory called, bounding in with the enthusiasm of youth and poor timing.
“Gregory,” Benedict said, nodding.
Gregory greeted Penelope then his eyes did a very obvious, very brief, very unwise dip.
Benedict reacted on instinct.
Smack.
His good arm came out fast, swatting the back of Gregory’s head with surprising accuracy.
“Oi!” Gregory yelped. “What was that for?”
Benedict fixed him with a glare. “Respect.”
Penelope froze. Then burst out laughing.
Gregory rubbed his head, scandalized. “I wasn’t even”
“Eyes up,” Benedict said firmly. “I’m injured, not blind.”
Jupiter barked once in agreement.
Penelope crossed the room, amusement dancing in her eyes, and pressed a kiss to Benedict’s temple.
“My hero,” she teased.
Benedict smiled, smug despite the ache in his arm, Jupiter wagging beside him.
Pain, puppies, tormenting dresses, and siblings with wandering eyes.
Recovery, he decided, was going just fine.
-
Benedict approached his first follow-up appointment with the solemn dread of a man heading to the gallows.
The shoulder ached.
The sling itched.
His patience was thin.
But Penelope came with him, which helped.
She was mercifully not dressed like an assassination attempt today. Sensible trousers. A soft top. Cardigan. Hair loose. Calm. Safe.
Or so he thought.
They sat in the waiting room, Jupiter at Penelope’s feet because apparently the puppy went everywhere now, traitor that he was. Benedict leaned back, trying to look dignified and adult.
“Stop scowling,” Penelope murmured.
“I’m not scowling,” he said.
“You are,” she replied. “You have your I don’t trust this chair face.”
“I don’t trust doctors.”
She patted his knee. “You’ll survive.”
The door opened.
“Benedict Bridgerton?”
The voice.
That voice.
Benedict’s soul clenched like a fist.
He looked up.
Reginald. Bloody. Fife.
Reggie stood there in a white coat, clipboard tucked under his arm, smiling like the cat who not only ate the canary but dated the canary in his twenties and still thought about it sometimes.
“Yes,” Reggie said pleasantly, eyes flicking oh so casually to Penelope. “Benedict. Penelope. Well. This is… unexpected.”
Benedict stood too fast. Jupiter barked. His shoulder protested.
“You,” Benedict said flatly.
“Me,” Reggie replied cheerfully. “Your orthopedic specialist.”
Penelope blinked. “Oh. Hello, Reggie.”
“Pen,” Reggie said, warmth slipping into his voice like it paid rent. “You look well.”
Benedict stepped slightly in front of her. Subtle. Protective. Possessive.
“She is,” Benedict said. “Because she’s with me.”
Reggie smiled wider. “Yes, I heard. From Eloise. Several times. Loudly.”
Penelope cleared her throat. “Shall we… go in?”
“Yes,” Reggie said. “Please. Both of you.”
Benedict muttered, “I hate this already.”
The exam room was small. Too small. Reggie gestured Benedict onto the table.
“So,” Reggie began, flipping through the chart, “fell down the stairs.”
“I was attacked,” Benedict said. “By gravity.”
“Mmm,” Reggie hummed. “Classic enemy.”
He glanced at Penelope. “He’s always been dramatic.”
Benedict glared. “You once fainted at the sight of your own blood.”
“That was a lot of blood.”
Penelope pressed her lips together, fighting a smile.
Reggie finally turned his attention to Benedict’s shoulder. “Let’s have a look.”
He was professionalannoyingly so. Careful hands. Calm voice. Pressed, rotated, tested range of motion.
Benedict hissed once.
Penelope immediately leaned forward. “Is that normal?”
“Very,” Reggie said. “Healing nicely. Pain?”
“Constant,” Benedict replied.
“Only when he’s awake,” Penelope added.
Reggie chuckled.
Benedict shot her a betrayed look.
“So,” Reggie continued, jotting notes, “no lifting. No sudden movements. No”
“No fun,” Benedict said.
Reggie looked up. “Especially no fun.”
Penelope tilted her head. “How long until he’s back to normal?”
Reggie paused. Then smiled. Slowly.
“Normal?” he repeated. “Hard to say. Benedict’s version of normal has always been… aspirational.”
Benedict snapped, “Watch it, Fife.”
Reggie met his gaze evenly. “Relax. I’m just the doctor.”
Penelope sensed the tension thickening like summer air before a storm.
“Reggie,” she said gently, “thank you for taking good care of him.”
His expression softened. Just a fraction. “Of course. I always take care of my patients.”
Benedict immediately reached for Penelope’s hand with his good arm and laced their fingers together.
Reggie noticed.
“Well,” he said briskly, stepping back, “healing is on track. We’ll schedule another check in a few weeks. Try not to fight any staircases in the meantime.”
“I make no promises,” Benedict replied.
Reggie opened the door. “Penelope good to see you.”
She smiled kindly. “You too, Reggie.”
Benedict stood, glaring until they were safely in the corridor.
The moment the door shut, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the Carter administration.
“Of all the doctors,” he muttered. “Him.”
Penelope squeezed his hand. “He was professional.”
“He dated you.”
“Years ago.”
“He smiled at you.”
“I smile at people.”
“He breathed near you.”
She laughed. “Oh hush.”
They walked toward the exit, Jupiter trotting happily between them, blissfully unaware of grudges.
Benedict leaned down, murmuring, “You’re still mine.”
Penelope looked up at him, eyes warm, amused, utterly certain.
“I know,” she said. “And you’re still ridiculous.”
He grinned.
Shoulder aching. Pride intact. Territory firmly marked.
Checkup survived.
Barely.
—
Benedict was pouting.
He sat on his sofa, arm in its sling, Jupiter pressed against his thigh like a loyal footman, radiating displeasure at the universe. Outside existed people. Noise. Expectations. Worst of allsharing.
“I don’t see why I need to go anywhere,” Benedict muttered.
Penelope hummed, unhelpfully cheerful, as she emerged from the bedroom.
“I’m injured,” he continued. “I should be kept indoors. Preserved. Admired.”
She stepped into view.
The argument died in his throat.
Green.
Not just green. Shiny. Clingy. The sort of fabric that caught the light and refused to let go. The dress skimmed her like it had been tailored by a man with sins to confess. It clung to her waist, curved where it pleased, and ah yes there it was.
Cleavage.
Benedict narrowed his eyes.
“That dress,” he said slowly, “is a personal attack.”
Penelope smiled innocently. “It’s comfortable.”
“It’s treason.”
She walked closer, and he watched helplessly because of course he did. He always had opinions. Strong ones. He just wasn’t allowed to act on them at the moment.
Then mercifully she slipped on the jacket that went with it.
Structured. Elegant. Buttoned.
Benedict exhaled. Marginally calmer.
“…Better,” he conceded.
She raised a brow. “Better?”
“Yes. Still cleavage,” he added pointedly, “but we’re no longer in open warfare.”
She laughed and leaned down to help him with his shirt.
His shirt.
White. Button-down. Clean. Soft.
She guided his injured arm gently, fingers careful, reverent even. As she smoothed the collar into place, she leaned injust slightlyand pressed a kiss to the freckles along his neck.
One. Two.
Benedict closed his eyes.
“I love these,” she murmured. “They’re very… you.”
His brain short-circuited. “I am never leaving this house again.”
She smiled and buttoned the last button.
That’s when Benedict noticed it.
He glanced down.
Then to the floor.
Then back up.
Jupiter sat proudly, tail wagging, wearing a green collar.
The exact same shade as Penelope’s dress.
Benedict blinked.
He looked down at himself again.
His shirt.
Green accents. Subtle. Matching.
He stared at Penelope.
“You coordinated us,” he said.
She tilted her head. “Of course.”
“With the dog.”
“Our dog.”
“With me.”
“Yes.”
The front door opened.
“Hey” Gregory’s voice rang out, before he stepped fully into the room.
Benedict straightened immediately and glared.
Hard.
Gregory froze mid-step.
“…Why are you looking at me like that?”
Benedict didn’t blink. “Just checking.”
Gregory glanced at Penelope, then wisely kept his eyes locked on her face.
“Right,” he said quickly. “I’ll uh stand over here.”
Jupiter barked once, approvingly.
Penelope bit back a smile and kissed Benedict’s cheek.
“You ready?” she asked softly.
He sighed, dramatic but resigned, hand tightening around hers.
“No,” he said. “But I suppose if I must share you with the world, I’ll do it begrudgingly.”
She leaned in and whispered, “I’m still yours.”
Benedict smiled, smug and soothed, shoulder aching, jealousy satisfiedfor now.
And if the world admired her?
Well.
They could look.
He had the matching shirt.
The dog.
And her hand firmly in his.
—
Benedict arrived injured, territorial, and already irritated. Penelope arrived glowing, coordinated, and betrayal of the highest order liked by everyone.
The table was long. Too long. Violet had gone all out, as if feeding an army might finally tame her children. Candles flickered. Wine flowed. Jupiter lay beneath the table like a sentry, green collar proudly on display, guarding Benedict’s feet.
Benedict sat stiffly beside Penelope, sling prominent, glare calibrated.
Anthony, meanwhile, noticed everything.
And Anthony, unmarried and bored, was a menace.
“Well,” Anthony said, lifting his glass, eyes sliding deliberately to Penelope, “I must say you look especially lovely tonight.”
Benedict froze.
Penelope smiled politely. “Thank you, Anthony.”
Anthony leaned back, entirely too relaxed. “Green suits you.”
Benedict’s jaw tightened. “Anthony.”
“What?” Anthony asked innocently. “Am I not allowed to compliment a guest?”
Penelope reached for her water, unbothered. Benedict reached for his patience.
Hyacinth grinned like a gremlin. Eloise perked up immediately.
“Oh no,” Eloise murmured. “He’s flirting.”
“I am not flirting,” Anthony protested. “I’m being observant.”
“You’re baiting,” Benedict snapped.
Anthony’s smile widened. “You’re injured. I thought you might appreciate the help.”
Benedict leaned forward. “Touch her and I’ll break my other arm hitting you.”
Violet cleared her throat sharply. “Anthony.”
“What?” he said again, still smiling. “I’m being charming.”
Penelope tilted her head, amused now. “You are being very… Anthony.”
“High praise,” he replied smoothly. “You know, Penelope, I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for keeping my brother alive.”
“Oh, she did more than that,” Hyacinth chimed in. “She tortured him.”
Penelope laughed. “Only a little.”
Anthony’s brow lifted. “Really?”
Benedict hissed, “Do not encourage her.”
Anthony leaned closer too close to Penelope. “You have my gratitude. Perhaps I should repay you. Dinner sometime?”
Silence fell.
Cutlery paused mid-air.
Jupiter growled.
Benedict moved without thinking his good arm slamming down on the table with a sharp crack.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
Anthony blinked. Then burst out laughing.
“Oh, relax,” he said. “I’m teasing.”
“I will end you,” Benedict replied calmly.
Penelope placed a soothing hand on Benedict’s thigh. “Breathe.”
He did. Barely.
Colin snorted. “I give it five minutes before Benedict flips the table.”
Francesca sipped her wine. “I give it three.”
Daphne smiled serenely. “Anthony deserves it.”
Anthony raised his glass again, unrepentant. “To Penelope clearly the most dangerous woman at this table.”
Penelope lifted her glass politely. “I try.”
Benedict muttered, “She’s mine.”
Anthony heard him. Of course he did.
“Yes, yes,” Anthony said. “Territory marked. Shirt matched. Dog coordinated. We’ve all noticed.”
Laughter rippled around the table.
Benedict scowled but Penelope leaned in, kissing his cheek softly, freckles and all.
“You’re doing wonderfully,” she whispered.
He softened instantly. “Am I?”
“Very bravely,” she said. “Even with the flirting.”
Anthony sighed dramatically. “See? She’s kind. You could learn from her.”
Benedict smiled tightly. “You could learn restraint.”
Dinner continuedloud, chaotic, affectionate. Stories. Teasing. Too much wine. Jupiter accepted scraps like a king.
And through it all, Benedict stayed close, possessive but proud.
Let them flirt. Let them look.
He had her hand.
The matching shirt.
And the satisfaction of knowing
Penelope dinner or not
she was going home with him. 😌
—
Benedict had been thinking about it all evening.
Thinking was dangerous.
Thinking led to wanting.
And wanting, when one arm was in a sling and one’s pride was in recovery, was a special kind of torture.
He sat on the edge of the bed, jaw tight, Jupiter already banished from the room with bribery and apologies. He flexed his good hand, annoyed at his own body.
“I hate this,” he muttered.
Penelope didn’t answer.
Which should have been his first warning.
The light shifted behind him. Fabric whispered. A quiet, deliberate soundunhurried, confident.
“Ben,” she said softly.
He turned.
And every remaining thought he possessed scattered like startled birds.
Black lace.
Elegant. The sort of lingerie that didn’t ask for permission and certainly didn’t wait for approval. It fit her like intent curved, deliberate, unapologetic.
She stood there, arms folded lightly, head tilted, watching him unravel.
“Well,” she said. “You’ve been staring for a while.”
He swallowed. “You’re… cruel.”
She smiled. Slow. Knowing. “You love it.”
“I can’t” He gestured vaguely with his sling, frustration flickering. “I don’t like not being able to”
“I know,” she interrupted gently, crossing the room.
She stopped between his knees. Close enough that he could feel her warmth. Close enough that control slipped right through his fingers.
“So tonight,” she continued, voice low and steady, “you don’t have to.”
His breath hitched.
“I’m in charge,” she said simply.
That did something dangerous to him.
She reached up, fingers brushing his jaw, tilting his face up to hers. He didn’t resist. He couldn’t. She kissed him slow and deep, unhurried, like she had all night and intended to use it.
“You trust me?” she murmured against his mouth.
“With my life,” he answered immediately.
“Good,” she said. “Because tonight, you’re mine.”
She guided him back gently, deliberately, never once making him feel weakonly wanted. Every touch was intentional. Every look said I see you. I choose you. I’ve got you.
Benedict let go.
And that more than anything was what undid him.
She moved with confidence, with warmth, with quiet command. She told him what to do. What not to do. When to stay still. When to breathe. When to let her take the lead without apology.
“You’re doing beautifully,” she whispered, forehead resting against his. “Even like this.”
He laughed softly, breathless. “You always say the right thing.”
“I always mean it.”
She kissed his freckleshis weaknessslowly, reverently, like a promise.
The world narrowed.
The rest… belonged only to them.
The door stayed closed.
The lights stayed low.
And control glorious, maddening control shifted hands for the night.
Benedict would complain tomorrow.
Tonight?
Tonight, he surrendered happily. 😌💋
~~~~~
Jupiter huffed.
Not a small huff.
A judgmental, world‑weary huffthe sort usually reserved for disappointed butlers and elderly aunts.
He padded back into the bedroom once the door was finally opened, paused just inside the threshold, and took in the scene.
The rumpled sheets.
The discarded black lace peeking from the floor like evidence.
Benedict sprawled back against the pillows, hair a mess, sling crooked, looking entirely too pleased with himself for an injured man.
Penelope beside him, calm, glowing, victorious.
Jupiter sat.
Huffed again.
Benedict cracked one eye open. “Don’t start.”
Jupiter tilted his head.
“That was necessary,” Benedict added defensively. “For morale.”
Penelope laughed softly, tucking herself closer to Benedict’s side. “He waited very patiently.”
Jupiter climbed onto the bed anyway, circling once before plopping down with exaggerated resignation, back firmly turned to them.
Another huff.
Penelope reached out and scratched behind his ears. “You did so well.”
Jupiter leaned into it immediately, traitor.
Benedict sighed, content, exhausted, thoroughly undone. “I’ve been replaced.”
Penelope kissed his shoulder gently. “No,” she murmured. “You’re still my favorite.”
Jupiter’s tail thumped once.
Benedict smirked. “See? Even he knows.”
The puppy sighedlong-suffering, dramaticand settled in between them like a furry chaperone who had seen far too much.
The house went quiet again.
Recovery, Benedict decided, had its perks.
—
Two weeks passed.
Slowly. Painfully. With all the grace of molasses in winter.
Benedict was going mad.
The sling was gone courtesy of Reginald Bloody Fife, who’d smiled far too smugly while announcing, “You’re healing well. Don’t overdo it.” As if overdoing it wasn’t Benedict’s entire personality.
The shoulder still ached. Not screaming anymorejust a deep, stubborn throb that reminded him he was not, in fact, invincible. Painting was out of the question. The thought of lifting his arm that way made him wince.
So he sketched.
Charcoal. Pencil. Paper scattered everywhere.
Hands resting low. Movements careful. Controlled.
It helped. Sort of.
But it wasn’t enough.
Penelope had gone back to work.
Thisthiswas the real cruelty.
She checked in constantly. Texts. Calls. Voice notes that made his chest ache in a different way.
Did you eat?
Don’t forget the ice.
Tell Jupiter I love him.
Jupiter, traitor that he was, remained unfailingly cheerful.
The puppy lay at Benedict’s feet now, chin on paws, watching the charcoal move across the page like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
“You’re not even impressed,” Benedict muttered.
Jupiter wagged his tail.
“I used to paint,” Benedict went on. “Big canvases. Color. Drama.”
Jupiter sneezed.
“Yes, well,” Benedict sighed, “I suppose this is character building.”
The house felt wrong without her.
Too quiet. Too still. No hum of her presence. No soft footsteps. No teasing commentary about his posture or his scowl or the way he talked to the dog.
He missed her terribly.
That realization hit him mid‑sketch sharp and uninvited.
He stared down at the paper.
Without meaning to, he’d drawn her.
Again.
Penelope in profile. Hair loose. Laughing. Always laughing. The lines came easily, instinctively, like his hand knew her better than his mind wanted to admit.
Jupiter stood and padded closer, nose bumping Benedict’s knee.
“I know,” Benedict murmured. “I miss her too.”
As if summoned, his phone buzzed.
Penelope.
He answered immediately.
“Hello,” he said, tryingand failingto sound casual.
“How’s the shoulder?” she asked.
“Functional. Irritating.”
She laughed. God, he missed that sound. “Did you behave today?”
“No.”
“Did you rest?”
“Define rest.”
“Did you ice it?”
“…Jupiter sat on it.”
She sighed fondly. “I’ll take that as a partial win.”
There was a pause. A small one. The kind that carried weight.
“I hate not being there,” she said softly.
He swallowed. “I hate that you’re not.”
Another pause. Warmer now.
“I’ll come by after work,” she promised. “Just for a bit.”
His chest loosened immediately. “I’ll survive until then.”
“Good,” she teased. “Because I need you alive.”
They hung up.
Benedict leaned back, eyes closing, pencil loose in his fingers.
Jupiter climbed onto the couch beside him and pressed in close.
“You hear that?” Benedict murmured. “She’s coming.”
Jupiter’s tail thumped.
Benedict smiledsmall, tired, hopeful.
Healing hurt.
Waiting was worse.
But some thingssome thingswere worth going slowly for.
And Benedict, sketching again, loving fiercely, learned that patiencehowever unwelcomehad its own quiet beauty.
~~~~~~
Benedict stared at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.
Anthony bless him, mischief incarnate, untethered bachelor that he was, had just hung up after twenty minutes of Benedict rambling, gushing, practically composing an ode to Penelope in real time.
He had talked about:
Her laugh, which could make the air itself lighter.
The way she moved, confident, graceful, yet completely unaware of how devastatingly magnetic she was.
Her intelligence, sharp and clever, which had him simultaneously terrified and in awe.
How she looked after him when he was injured, teasing, tender, irresistiblelike she had some secret superpower called ruining his composure with perfection.
Her little quirks, her hands, her freckles, her sheer, radiant presence.
Anthony had been quiet the entire time. Listening. Probably judging him a little. Thenbam.
“Just ask her to move in with you for goodness’ sake. Hell, if she signed a lease recently, I’ll pay her fee to break it. Just ask her.”
Click.
Silence.
Benedict stared.
Blinked.
Stared again.
Why didn’t I think of this myself? he thought, slowly sinking into the sofa cushions, sling still tucked neatly against his arm.
It was obvious. Obvious! Penelope was perfect. She was here. She was his and yet somehow, in his overthinking, indecisive, painfully meticulous way, he had never considered just… asking her.
It was like Anthony had just handed him the key to a room he’d spent months circling with caution and fear.
Benedict rubbed his forehead. Jupiter nudged him, tail wagging, as if aware that some monumental decision had just arrived unannounced.
“I’ve been an idiot,” he muttered.
Jupiter huffed in agreement.
“Yes, yes,” Benedict continued, pacing slightlycareful with the shoulder“obviously, I must ask her. Immediately. Carefully. With grace. With… with everything.”
His thoughts spiraled.
Do I need flowers? Or… not?
Do I pick a dramatic moment or casual?
Do I announce it like a declaration of war or whisper it like a secret?
The truth hit him like a thunderbolt.
He didn’t need theatrics. He didn’t need strategy. He just needed to say it.
“Penelope,” he whispered to himself, pacing again, “move in with me. Please. Please, move in with me.”
Jupiter barked once. Encouragingly.
Benedict smiled, suddenly lighter. Furious, brilliant Anthony had just removed weeks of hesitation with one simple, reckless suggestion.
Why didn’t I think of this myself?
Because he was Benedict Bridgerton. Overthinking was his superpower.
And now, finally, he had a plan.
Step one: ask.
Step two: survive the inevitable swoon.
Step three: never let her go.
It was simple. Simple, and terrifying, and completely, utterly right.
He just had to say it.
—
Benedict had a plan.
A sensible one. A measured one. A very adult one.
He was going to ask Penelope, his girlfriend of an entire, glorious, occasionally maddening year to move in with him. Share space. Share mornings. Share toothbrush proximity like civilized people who loved each other deeply but did not lose their minds.
That was the plan.
Plans, unfortunately, were no match for Penelope.
The door opened.
And there she was.
White dress. Soft. Pink cardigan draped over her shoulders like a finishing touch the universe added just to mock him. Her hair was neat from work, her face tired in that beautiful, real way that said she had given the world her best all day and still came home to him.
She smiled when she saw him.
“Hey,” she said gently. “How’s the shoulder today?”
Benedict forgot every coherent thought he had ever had.
The speech vanished.
The plan evaporated.
His lungs staged a quiet rebellion.
All he could see was herwalking toward him, Jupiter trotting happily at her heels, already home like he belonged there.
She set her bag down. Slipped off her shoes. Looked up at him with that familiar, grounding warmth.
And something in Benedict, something old and sure and absolutely immovable clicked into place.
He stood.
Carefully. Shoulder be damned. Heart very much not.
“Penelope,” he said.
She paused. “Yes?”
He took her hands in hishis good hand warm and steady, the other careful but present. He didn’t kneel. Tradition mattered, yes, but honesty mattered more, and he needed to look at her when he said this.
“I was going to ask you something else,” he admitted, voice rough with truth. “Something practical. Sensible.”
Her brow furrowed. “Benedict”
“I miss you when you’re gone,” he continued, words tumbling now, unstoppable. “I miss you when you’re in the next room. I miss you when you’re asleep beside me. I miss you even when you’re annoying me and coordinating outfits with the dog.”
Jupiter wagged.
Penelope laughed softly, eyes already shining. “Ben”
“I don’t want a house without you in it,” he said. “I don’t want days that don’t include you. I don’t want plans that don’t start and end with you.”
He slipped his ruby ring off his finger the one he never took off. Deep red. Worn. His. The ring that had been with him through every version of himself.
He pressed it gently into her palm.
“So instead,” he said, voice steady now, certain as stone, “I’m asking you this.”
Penelope’s breath caught.
“Marry me.”
The room went still.
Jupiter sat.
Penelope stared at the ring. Then at him. Then laugheda soft, disbelieving sound that broke into tears almost immediately.
“Benedict,” she whispered.
“I’ll get you a real engagement ring tomorrow,” he rushed, suddenly earnest and almost frantic, “something perfect and shiny and worthy of you but please,” he added, eyes burning with hope and love and a lifetime of intention, “please marry me.”
She didn’t hesitate.
She laughed. She cried. She cupped his face in her hands like she’d been waiting her whole life to do exactly that.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course yes.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a year.
She slipped the ruby ring on her finger. It fit like it had always known where it belonged.
Jupiter barked onceapproving, triumphant.
Penelope leaned in, pressing her forehead to his. “You realize,” she said softly, “you skipped about six steps.”
He smiled, brilliant and relieved and utterly undone. “I’m an artist. I leap.”
She kissed himgentle, certain, forever.
And Benedict knew, with bone-deep certainty, that thisthis impulsive, perfect, ruby-ringed momentwas the best unplanned decision he had ever made. 💍❤️
—
The next day, the air was lighter sun spilling through the windows, Jupiter bouncing happily at their feet, and Benedict… well, Benedict was nervous in a way that only men about to propose again could be.
The ruby ring, their temporary token of forever still glinted on Penelope’s hand, and he found himself staring at it more than he stared at anything else.
“Today,” he murmured, pacing the showroom carefully, “we pick the real thing.”
Jupiter barked once, tail wagging. Approval, clearly.
Penelope smiled softly. “I want you to pick,” she said, hands folded neatly in her lap, entirely trusting, entirely certain, entirely beautiful.
Benedict nearly melted. She wanted him to choose. His heart practically did cartwheels.
They went through twenty rings. Each more dazzling than the last, but he was looking for her. Not the size. Not the sparkle. Not the price. The one that whispered her name.
And then he saw it.
A 3 ctw curved vine pear solitaire ring, platinum. Elegant. Flowing. Simple but breathtaking. And when he slipped it onto her finger… it fit. Without adjustments. It was as though the universe had been holding it just for her.
She gasped softly, fingers flexing. Her eyes met his. “Benedict…”
He smiled, soft, warm, full of love. “It’s perfect. Like you.”
Penelope laughed lightly, pinky out, and slid his ruby ring back onto the finger it belonged on.
“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” she said, eyes twinkling.
Benedict’s chest swelled. “It was never a loan,” he said. “It’s yours. Always yours.”
Jupiter barked, as though agreeing, tail wagging furiously.
And in that small, sunlit moment, surrounded by love, loyalty, and a very approving cocker spaniel, Benedict knew the next chapter of their lives had begunand it was going to be perfect.
~~~~~~~~
They were waiting for their lunch sunlit café terrace, Jupiter stretched contentedly at their feet, nose buried in a stray bit of shade when Benedict pulled out his phone and started scrolling, earnest and a little tense.
“What do we need to actually do if we want to get married here, legally?” he asked, voice low but steady.
Penelope leaned in, curious. “Let’s look it up,” she said, resting her hand in his good one.
Together they found the basics: in England and Wales you have to give legal notice of your intention to marry at your local register office at least 29 days before your ceremony can take place. After that waiting period is up, you’re free to wed any time within the next year.
“Basically,” Benedict mused, “once you give notice, you count down the days and then we can have the ceremony.”
Penelope smiled. “That’s… surprisingly straight forward.”
Benedict put down his phone, exhaling like he’d just crossed a mountain. He glanced at her across the table, sun catching her hair, her fingers playing with the edge of her napkin.
“You know,” he said carefully, meeting her eyes, “yesterday Anthony called.”
Penelope raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“He… said I should ask you to move in with me.” Benedict’s mouth twitched into a rueful grin. “He said he’d even pay a lease‑breaking fee or something. Like that was the big hurdle.”
Penelope laughed, soft and amused.
InsteadBenedict continued, warmth spreading in his voiceI asked you to marry me. He reached for her hand, thumb brushing the curve of her engagement ring, and kissed it gently. “It felt… right in the moment.”
Penelope’s laughter softened into a smile that made his heart feel light, like it belonged somewhere familiar and everlasting.
“I’m glad you asked,” she murmured, eyes shining.
Benedict’s grin widened, slipping off his seat to scratch Jupiter behind the ears where the puppy was happily slumped. “So… we just have to give notice and then wait the official thing, right?”
“Yes,” she confirmed, leaning back into him. “Let’s give notice soon.”
“I think… I think I’d like that,” Benedict said, and Jupiter barked onceexactly on cue, like he was officiating the whole thing for them.
Their food arrived then sandwiches and salads and iced tea but Benedict hardly touched a bite. His eyes kept drifting back to Penelope, to her smile, to the way her fingers brushed his.
And in that little sunlit lunch momentthe legal steps understood, the secret engagement secure, Jupiter approving beneath the table Benedict felt the thrill of what comes next spreading warm and sure through him like sunrise.
He kissed her engagement ring again, softly, reverently.
“Thank you,” he said, low and certain.
Penelope simply smiled back, sunshine and promise all at once.
—
A few weeks later….
Benedict’s arm still throbbed occasionally, a stubborn reminder that he wasn’t quite back to full strength. But that didn’t stop him from wanting Penelope to move in immediately.
So, like any reasonable man with pride and limited mobility, he enlisted reinforcements: Anthony, Colin, and Gregory, each of them carrying boxes, bantering, and somehow managing to make the chore feel like a sport. Benedict himself oversaw the operation, pacing with precision and giving orders one-handed, while Jupiter darted between legs and boxes like a furry general keeping the troops in line.
“Careful with the lamp, Gregory,” Benedict barked, voice precise despite the grimace of exertion as he adjusted a corner of the couch with his good arm. “It’s not a medieval torch.”
Gregory rolled his eyes. “Yes, sir, Captain Pain-in-the-Arm.”
Anthony carried what looked like half of Penelope’s books, smirking as he caught Benedict’s glare. “Don’t look at me like that, Ben. It’s literary collateral.”
“Collar-bombing my patience,” Benedict muttered under his breath.
Colin, meanwhile, was carefully maneuvering a particularly delicate box labeled Glassware – Handle with Extreme Care. Jupiter barked, bounding around his ankles, clearly outraged at Colin’s lack of efficiency.
Penelope, ever graceful even while surrounded by chaos, moved between the men with ease, directing what went where, smiling at Benedict when she passed by. Her engagement ring stayed hidden from curious eyes; she wore it on the delicate chain Benedict had surprised her with last week. The sparkle caught the light occasionally, but no one else had a clue.
“This is going to be wonderful,” she said brightly, holding up a box of framed sketches. “I can’t wait to have everything in place.”
Benedict’s chest tightened at the sight of her happiness. “Soon,” he promised. “I want you here, every morning, every evening, every… inconvenient moment.” He caught Jupiter’s approving bark and gave the puppy a gentle scratch behind the ears.
“Secret mission,” he muttered to Penelope. “Family doesn’t know about the engagement. You keep it safe, yes?”
“I’ve got it,” she whispered, smiling. “Necklace, check. Ring safely hidden, check. Patience for your family’s chaos, also check.”
Once the last box was hauled upstairs, the couple collapsed on the couch, Jupiter circling before curling up beside them. Benedict held her hand tightly, eyes warm.
“And,” Penelope added, leaning against him, “we’ve already filled out the online paperwork.”
Benedict grinned. “Officially engaged, officially moving in, officially planning our wedding.”
He paused, his grin widening. “Speaking of… Henry Granville said we could use his garden.”
Penelope’s eyes sparkled. “He did?”
“Yes,” Benedict said, voice soft but triumphant. “All of it. Decorations, seating, flowers. Everything. Except the cake.”
“Except the cake?”
Benedict chuckled. “He knows me too well. He said I must be allowed to choose and taste-test it myself. He’s right, of course.”
Penelope laughed, resting her head against his shoulder. “It feels… real. This. Us. All of it.”
“It is,” Benedict murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. Jupiter gave an enthusiastic bark at the sound of his voice, as if to underline the point.
Boxes unpacked, paperwork done, secret engagement safely in place, the garden reserved, dessert officially Benedict-approved… life was falling into place.
—
Day fifteen of the twenty-nine, and Benedict was back at his easel. The familiar scratch of brush against canvas felt like coming home after a long absence, pain dull in the background, heart full in the foreground. Jupiter sat nearby, occasionally nipping at stray paintbrush bristles, tail thumping with what Benedict swore was judgment.
Penelope hovered near the window, sunlight catching the pink of her cardigan and the gleam of her engagement ring. Sometimes they bumped into each other while arranging canvases or fetching paint, but there was no fighting, just laughter, quick apologies, and a soft settling back into rhythm. They had learned that small collisions of space were far better than collisions of hearts.
And then… inevitably, they got lost in each other. Fingers brushing while mixing colors, quiet conversations over tea, little touches that lingered longer than they should. Benedict found himself staring at her when she laughed, tracing the line of her cheek, or catching the sparkle of the ring that rested on her finger. Always there, a quiet reminder of what they’d promised each other.
“Jupiter rolls his eyes every time,” Penelope teased one afternoon as the puppy barked and spun in exasperation at yet another cuddle or brush of hands.
“I do not,” Benedict said, brushing paint off his fingers while keeping a sly eye on Jupiter.
“You absolutely do,” she laughed, leaning closer to kiss the corner of his mouth.
Benedict let the brush fall. “I may… occasionally notice it,” he admitted quietly, nodding at the ring as it caught the sunlight.
She just smiled, warm and certain, squeezing his hand.
Penelope wore her ring always, except when family was around. The secret engagement made planning their surprise wedding all the more thrilling. Violet, Anthony, Colin, and the rest would never see it coming, and that made Benedict smirk more than any brushstroke ever could.
In between painting and quiet afternoons, they planned their honeymoon. Paris whispered across their mindsa drive this time, so Jupiter could come along. A small adventure, just the three of them, a way to celebrate love, laughter, and the quiet stolen moments they now shared.
And so Day Fifteen ended: paint-streaked fingers, Jupiter curled at their feet, and hearts entirely, blissfully tangled in love.
~~~~~~
Day twenty‑five dawned bright and busy, though Benedict barely noticed the sun. He was preoccupied with what truly mattered: cake. The thought of cake testing his cake testing had him pacing the kitchen, Jupiter weaving between his legs, tail thumping with barely contained excitement.
Penelope leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smiling at him. “You’re taking this very seriously,” she teased.
“I am,” Benedict said firmly, swiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Dessert is a sacred art. And I will taste-test every option.”
Jupiter barked, presumably in full agreement.
Once their plan was set, Benedict pulled out his phone and composed a group text to the Bridgerton clan:
Benedict tapped send on the group text:
Do not book anything for July 23rd. Be available.
Almost immediately, the responses started pouring in.
Anthony: Why?
Colin: Is this a family reunion? A royal ball? A duel?
Daphne: Benedict, are you serious? What’s happening?
Eloise: Are we going to be locked in the parlor all day? Is it a test?
Hyacinth: Do we have to wear hats? I hate hats.
Gregory: Seriously… Benedict… what is this?
Francesca: Mom says we can’t just “be available” without knowing why. Are we being graded??
And then, calm but lethal:
Violet: Benedict, my dear, if this involves cake, I demand an invitation.
Benedict scrolled past them all once, eyes flicking to Jupiter sprawled happily at his feet, tail wagging like a metronome of approval. He set his phone down with a triumphant smile.
“All they need to know is the date,” he said to Penelope. She leaned on the table, smiling, clearly enjoying his smugness as Jupiter nudged her leg.
“They’re going to drive themselves mad,” Penelope said, shaking her head.
“Exactly,” Benedict said, eyes sparkling. “Perfectly mad. That’s how surprises work. Chaos makes the reveal so much sweeter.”
Jupiter barked once, tail wagging furiously, clearly in full agreement.
Penelope laughed softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And proud of it,” Benedict replied, leaning back and brushing his fingers over her hand, where the engagement ring hung safely on the necklace he’d given her. “July 23rd will be… unforgettable.”
The family would have no idea what hit them, and Benedict could hardly wait to see the chaos unfold.
—
Penelope slipped out of the house with a spring in her step, leaving Jupiter firmly in charge of Benedict. The puppy sat at the foot of the stairs like a loyal little general, tail thumping, eyes never leaving Benedict as he circled the kitchen table, fork in hand.
“Chocolate… or vanilla-raspberry?” Benedict muttered, pacing with exaggerated drama. Jupiter barked once, as if to remind him he needed to make a choiceor at least stop stepping on his tail.
“I can’t decide!” Benedict groaned, setting the fork down and pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s too important! Dessert is a serious art form.”
Jupiter rolled his eyesor as much as a black-and-white cocker spaniel could. Then he plopped down in front of Benedict, tail thumping against the hardwood floor, clearly supervising the cake taste-testing.
Meanwhile, Penelope arrived at Genevieve’s studio, sunlight catching the rainbow of fabrics strewn across the tables. “I want something I can wear again,” she said, settling in with a happy sigh. “Not a dress that hangs in a closet forever. Something magical, versatile, unforgettable.”
Genevieve’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, I have ideas,” she said, sweeping her hands over silks, lace, and shimmering threads. “We’ll make it stunning, Penelope. Modern, romantic, and just a little hint of sparkle for the big day.”
Penelope grinned. “Exactly what I want!”
Penelope, thinking of Benedict at home with Jupiter supervising his indecision. “I just hope he survives the cake debate without destroying the kitchen.”
“Jupiter will make sure he doesn’t,” Gen said with a smirk. “The dog’s been trained wellhe knows who’s really in charge.”
Back at the house, Benedict had finally returned to the fork. Jupiter hovered near, tail thumping, judging every bite. He sampled chocolate, then vanilla-raspberry, scribbling notes on a napkin like a mad scientist.
“This is torture,” Benedict groaned, but even he couldn’t help a grin. Jupiter barked once, perhaps in agreementor maybe to demand a bite.
By the time Penelope returned later that afternoon, fabrics were chosen, sketches pinned, and Benedict had (finally!) settled on the cake flavor. Jupiter trotted to the door to greet her, satisfied his supervision had been effective, while Benedict waved a napkin-scribbled list of pros and cons triumphantly.
And somewhere in the quiet corners of the house, amidst flour dust and sunbeams, the secret wedding plans edged closer to realitytwo people in love, a very loyal puppy, and the small circle of friends who held the keys to their surprise.
—
Benedict sat at the kitchen table, Jupiter at his feet, tail thumping like a drumroll of approval. He tapped out one final text to the Bridgerton clan:
Everyone: summer, dressy, summery vibe. Be stylish, be ready, be there. July 23rd.
Within seconds, the notifications started flooding in.
Anthony: Summer? Dressy? Summery vibe? Do you mean formal or casual?
Colin: I need specifics! Is linen acceptable? Seersucker? Hats?
Daphne: Benedict, please clarify. I cannot dress inappropriately.
Eloise: Does this involve a picnic or a masquerade? Are we outdoors? Indoors? What shoes???
Hyacinth: I refuse hats but am willing to wear fascinator alternatives if acceptable.
Gregory: Seriously… summery vibe? I don’t even know what that means.
Francesca: Mum says no flip-flops. Is that the vibe you want?
Then Violet, ever calm but with just enough authority to make it amusing, chimed in:
Benedict, my dear, please make sure no one confuses “summery vibe” with “clothing optional.”
Benedict scrolled through, smiling faintly, ignoring each and every question. Jupiter barked once, clearly approving.
“They love asking questions,” Benedict muttered to the puppy, shaking his head. “It’s part of the family charm… or curse.”
Jupiter nudged his hand, tail wagging, as if to say, just wait. It’s going to be glorious chaos.
Penelope, coming into the kitchen after checking in on Genevieve’s progress, laughed. “Are they really all going to interrogate you about a dress code?”
“They already are,” Benedict said, grinning. “And they won’t stop until July 23rd. Which, of course, is exactly what makes this fun. The surprise will be magnificent.”
Jupiter barked again, as if to seal the plan. Benedict rubbed the top of the puppy’s head. “Prepare yourself, little general. The Bridgertons are about to descend in full summery force.”
And with that, the final text was sent, the chaos officially unleashed, and Benedict leaned back, savoring the thrill of keeping the family blissfully guessingwhile Jupiter supervised every glorious second.