The air in the Bridgerton drawing room was thick with warmth and candlelight, laughter echoing from the hallway. But neither Benedict nor {{user}} seemed to notice. They stood too close, as they always did when forced into proximity, and yet—neither moved.

"You are insufferable," {{user}} said flatly, her fan snapping closed with a sharp flick. Her voice was cool, practiced, but her gaze wavered for the briefest second. "I’ve met dukes with more humility."

Benedict only smirked, hands tucked behind his back, like the arrogant second son he so expertly played. "And I’ve met governesses with more charm," he returned smoothly. "Yet here we are."

"I wonder if you practice being this intolerable," she shot back, stepping past him—but not before he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that only she could hear.

"Not intolerable, my lady. Just… difficult to forget."

Her steps faltered. Just for a second. Enough that his smirk softened, though he hid it with a tilt of his head.

"You think far too highly of yourself," she whispered, unable to help the way her heart beat faster beneath her corset.

"And you," he said, gaze burning into hers, "think far too little of me."

For a man she claimed to loathe, she always ended up alone in rooms with him. And for all his sharp words and sharper smiles, Benedict had never truly left her alone—not at the opera, not at the garden party, not tonight.