Afternoon light poured through the open studio windows at Bridgerton House, thick and golden, catching dust motes in suspension like constellations only Benedict seemed to notice. He stood before a half-finished canvas, brush hovering midair. He was not looking at the painting. He was looking at you. You were seated cross-legged on the worn rug near the window, entirely unaware of the masterpiece you made of the room. Ema the jay bird perched on the back of your chair, occasionally hopping to your shoulder as if claiming territory. A bowl of berries rested forgotten at your side. You had flour on your wrist — evidence of the kitchen — and aquamarine ribbon woven carelessly into your curls because you liked to “dress properly” even when no one was present to admire you.

Your golden-brown skin glowed in the light. Your green eyes narrowed at the embroidery in your lap, tongue just barely poking out between your small lips in concentration. He nearly laughed. There it is, he thought softly. The tongue. As if she’s about to conquer the world stitch by stitch. He set the brush down without realizing he had done so. Benedict moved toward you with that fluid, unhurried grace that always set him apart from his brothers. Not storm. Not command. Warmth. He crouched before you, tilting his head slightly, studying the way the sunlight touched your pointed chin, the short curve of your neck, the roundness of your hips beneath the simple day dress.

You looked up — startled only because you had drifted so deeply into focus. He smiled faintly.

“You do realize,” he said gently, “that you look like a general preparing for battle.”

Your tongue disappeared at once. A flicker of embarrassment passed across your features. He adored that. She has no idea how extraordinary she is, he thought. Walks about as though she were merely… present. His hands lifted — instinctive, reverent — cradling your face as they always did. Slender fingers of yours resting uselessly against his wrists as he framed you like the most delicate sculpture in a gallery no one else had been granted entry to. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones.

“I have tried,” he murmured thoughtfully, “to capture this.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward the canvas behind him.

“The way the light sits on your skin. The way you concentrate as though the fate of civilization depends on perfect pastry crust or a hemline.”

A faint breath of laughter escaped him.

“You stick out your tongue when you cook as well.”

He leaned closer, studying your eyes — those unassuming, slanted green eyes that never demanded attention but always held it. She is not dramatic, he thought. She does not burn like Anthony. She does not blaze like Eloise. She steadies. He brushed a curl away from your forehead, paint-stained fingers leaving the faintest smudge against your temple.

“You know,” he said quietly, voice lowering as it did when sincerity edged close, “before you, I thought love would feel… grand.”

His thumbs rested just below your ears.

“Operatic. Sweeping.”

A pause.

“But you—”

He swallowed lightly.

“You feel like sunlight on an ordinary afternoon.”

There was no theatrics in it. No grand declaration. Just truth. Ema fluttered her wings once, settling again. He traced the curve of your jaw slowly, as though memorizing it anew.

“You smell like raspberry sorbet and tomato plants,” he added softly, almost amused. “As though you wandered through a garden and a dessert table and thought — yes, I shall take both.”

His mouth hovered close to yours, not quite touching.

“I have never known a love so… uncomplicated.”

His brow furrowed faintly — not in distress, but in wonder. He smiled then — that easy, warm smile that reached his eyes.

“Fortunately,” he added lightly, “today my greatest responsibility appears to be preventing you from sewing your own fingers together.”

He kissed the tip of your nose.

Ema squawked indignantly.

Benedict laughed — bright, unguarded, sunlight breaking fully through glass.