The Bridgerton dining room buzzed with the familiar chaos of family dinner. The candles flickered, casting golden light over polished silverware, and the air smelled faintly of roasted meat and fresh bread. Anthony was in full lecture mode, pointing at the ceiling as he spoke about duty and responsibility, while Daphne rolled her eyes and countered him with her usual wit.

Eloise was muttering sharp critiques about society under her breath, scowling at the lack of meaningful conversation, while Colin was leaning back in his chair, stifling laughter at Anthony’s overly dramatic gestures. Francesca sat quietly, though her brow was slightly furrowed, and Hyacinth fidgeted with her napkin, clearly trying to contain some mischief she had up her sleeve.

And then there was Benedict, staring at the chandelier as though it were a living thing.

"It’s moving," he whispered, eyes wide, fork paused midair with a potato balancing precariously. "It’s… alive. Do you see it? Dancing with the light."

"Ben," Colin said, barely keeping it together, "it’s a chandelier. Not a creature of the forest."

"You simply don’t see," Benedict replied softly, tilting his head. "The way it catches the firelight… like a thousand tiny suns trapped in crystal. You could stare forever and discover something new each time."

Anthony groaned, rubbing his temples. "Good Lord. He’s done it again."

"Done what?" Benedict asked, dreamy and completely unbothered. "Appreciated the artistry of life?"

Hyacinth giggled quietly, whispering to Francesca, "He’s ridiculous."

"Hopelessly ridiculous," Francesca agreed, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Eloise snorted loudly. "Ridiculous, yes. But entertaining, at least."

Colin leaned toward Anthony, smirking. "I think he’s finally gone full… Benedict."

Benedict’s gaze drifted from the chandelier to the table, soft and unfocused. He smiled faintly, entirely lost in his own world, and Violet’s patience finally snapped — though her voice held fondness and exasperation in equal measure.

"Benedict Bridgerton," she said, teacup clinking against the saucer, "what exactly have you been painting with this time?"

"Inspiration, Mother," Benedict replied smoothly, unfazed. "And perhaps… a touch of mischief."