“Damnit.”

You drop your box of paintbrushes, the noise of it echoing through the hall of the Art studio. You weren’t supposed to be here, it was after hours, and it was the only time you could sneak in to paint.

bending down to pick up the paint brushes, trying to be as quiet as possible, you hear footsteps approach you.

“The studio’s closed, m’lady.” A smirking Benedict Bridgerton winks at you and leans against the wall with his arms crossed. “Are you lost?”