When {{user}} first moved into the spare room in Benedict Bridgerton’s loft, she expected a quiet, artsy type. What she got was a whirlwind of sketchbooks on every surface, mysterious charcoal smudges on the countertops, and one unfairly attractive man who walked around barefoot like he owned the hardwood.

He did, technically.

Still, rules were established.

“We keep to our own spaces,” she had said on day one. “No flirting,” Benedict added, tossing her a smirk that made her suspicious. “No touching,” she countered, pointing at him with her coffee spoon. “And absolutely no sleeping together,” they both said in unison.

All was well… until Tuesday morning.

{{user}} stumbled out of her room in a hoodie and mismatched socks, hunting for caffeine. The scent of strong espresso led her to the kitchen—and to Benedict, freshly showered, towel slung around his waist, water droplets glistening on his chest like some cruel joke.

He looked up lazily. “Morning, roommate.”

She blinked. Hard.

“Where’s your shirt?”

“Haven’t found one that suits my mood yet.” He grinned, reaching for the cabinet. “Want coffee?”