Chapter Text
The brunch rush at Caravan King’s Cross was a sensory overload of clinking glasses, roasted coffee beans, and the symphony noise of accents over varied conversations. Sophie Baek, the popular student fashion designer at Central Saint Martins, sat at one of the prime tables, looking effortlessly chic, while her group of CSM friends gossiped over people in the café.
“This place is becoming a drag.” Hazel McGonigal said.
“Tell me about it,” Alfie Barrow confirms as he collapses his head on Sophie’s right shoulder.
"Look at those nerds huddled in the corner," Hazel points, nodding toward the back of the restaurant. "Are they lost or did they move the weirdo convention here?"
Sophie shifted her gaze. It was the UAL Film Society. They looked entirely out of place among the brunch crowd of well-dressed fashion students, architects, and freelancers. A lanky figure stood in front of the group, animatedly gesturing over a stack of colorful papers. Within moments, the group dispersed, scattering across the restaurant to hand out flyers to bemused diners.
“What are they even doing?,” Alfie questioned in a singsong voice.
The lanky leader of the group headed straight for their table. He wore an oversized grey, slightly faded knit sweater, his round tortoiseshell glasses resting precariously on the bridge of his nose. His white Autrys had long since ceased to be white, hovering somewhere between grey and ash as though they were only a few walks away from dismantling.
“Hi, I’m Benedict, Benedict Bridgerton,” he said, offering a warm, slightly awkward smile as he approached.
“We know who you are,” Alfie glumly answered. “You’re the annoying nerd who keeps inviting us to your screenings.”
Benedict ignores Alfie’s jab and instead offers a kind smile. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to invite you all to something. You see, The UAL Film Society is celebrating Steven Spielberg the whole month of October. I’m not sure if you know who he—”
“Yes, we know who he is, Letterboxd.” Hazel cuts in. “He’s the director of Ready Player One. I’ve seen that three times.” Benedict winces at Hazel’s reply.
“Ready Player One is his worst movie. The characters are underdeveloped, the themes are simplified, and the whole film is nostalgia over substance,” Benedict rapidly fires.
Sophie watched him amusely as he spoke.
“But that is not to say you won’t enjoy it. Because you would. But it’s not Spielberg’s best. In my opinion, at least.” Benedict continued.
Alfie rolled his eyes. “Okay but no one asked for your opinion.”
“What’s the invitation for, Benedict Benedict Bridgerton?,” Sophie asked, nodding. She gave Benedict a soft smile.
Benedict switches his gaze at her and blinks. “Uh— Uhmmm… it’s just Benedict Bridgerton,” Benedict stammers. Sophie furrows her brows and nods at him prodding him to continue.
“We have a screening of Jaws at Everyman. It’s part of a month-long celebration of Spielberg’s body of work.” He tapped a roll of flyers against his palm. “This is the last film we’re showing before tomorrow’s special screening of Disclosure Day where he’s a special guest in a panel… which I organized.” He smiled sheepishly as he leaned forward , handing a flyer to each person at the table.
“What time is the screening?” Sophie asked.
“Three o’clock. If you….want to come…” He said, scratching the back of his head. “It’s completely free.”
Hazel glanced at the paper, letting out a performative chuckle. "Free? What, do we have to bring our own blankets? Weird vibes included?"
"I think the weird vibe is a package deal," Chloé Sanford chimed in, smirk firmly in place as she sipped her iced coffee.
Benedict didn't lose his smile, though his shoulders tensed just a fraction. "Right. Well, the offer stands. Hope to see you there." He gave Sophie a brief, completely professional nod before turning on his heel and walking away.
“So long, Letterboxd!” Alfie mockingly shouts.
"Ugh, honestly, how can you even stand him?" Hazel asked, tossing the flyer onto the table like it was hazardous waste. "He’s so know-it-all. You actually talk to him, right?"
Sophie kept her expression entirely neutral as she took a sip of her iced matcha. "I need someone to edit the fashion short film we’re all required to submit by the end of the year. He knows his way around cameras, lights, and editing softwares. It’s purely functional."
“Fuck. We’re actually required to work with LCC students on that requirement,” Alfie adds.
“He’s just so annoying. I’m pretty sure he’s trying to get your attention, Soph.” Chloé said matter of factly, rolling her eyes. “I swear, if I ever find out that you’re hooking up with Letterboxd, I will stage an intervention.”
Sophie offered a tight, non-committal smile, turning back to her matcha. "Sure, Chloé. Whatever you say."
Seven hours later, the front door to a flat in Camberwell clicked open.
Sophie stepped inside, dropping a light red paper bag onto the entryway shoerack. She slid off her bomber jacket, hanging it carefully on the coat rack with her designer purse. From the living room, a low, ambient drone of sounds echoed. Taking a peek around the corner, she found Benedict in his Criterion Collection t-shirt and blue green tartan flannel pajama bottoms. He sat on the couch, completely absorbed in the abstract, slow-moving imagery on the television.
She watched him shift his position on the couch to hug his Stormtrooper pillow before reaching for a small notepad and pen and scribbling what she thinks are observations about the film he’s watching.
God he’s so cute, nerdy, and hot.
Sophie lingered in the doorway before quietly clearing her throat to make her presence known.
Benedict looked up, his face lifting with his trademark crooked smile. Sophie walked over, her entire popular baddie public persona melting away with every step. Without a word, she climbed onto his lap, straddled his waist, and buried her face into his neck as she wrapped her arms securely around his shoulders, her right hand burying into the back of his head.
Benedict’s arms wrapped around her waist instantly. “Hey,” he murmured into her hair.
"I'm sorry about this morning," Sophie whispered against his neck, her voice gentle. "My friends were being judgmental idiots. You didn’t deserve that."
Benedict closed his eyes. “You don’t have to say sorry on their behalf, Soph. Seriously. I get it.”
Sophie loosened the hug and pulled back, staring directly at Benedict’s eyes. “You shouldn’t have to get it.”
Benedict offered a soft, reassuring smile, his thumbs tracing the hip of her pants. “It is what it is, Sophie. They don’t know me so they judge me.”
“And objectively speaking? We look ridiculous together on paper, “ Benedict shrugged, his tone completely self-deprecatingly casual. “We’re like Mickey Rooney and Ava Gardner or Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.”
Sophie chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. “I don’t know who those people are.”
Benedict faux sighed. “All you need to know is Mickey Rooney was out of his league and Spencer Tracy looks like a human potato.”
Sophie laughed. “But you’re not a human potato. You’re….” She leans over and kisses him. “Simon Seville of Alvin and the Chipmunks. Simon who really gives a good head,” She continued teasingly as she leaned back to kiss him again.
They kiss tenderly for a few seconds before Benedict pulls away.
“Seriously, Sophie. You’re the entire Central Saint Martins IT-girl. Everyone wants a piece of you and your time. And I’m the annoying guy who writes seven-page essays on lighting ratios and posts complete film analysis of the works of Sergei Parajanov and Robert Bresson.” Benedict paused, his eyes dropping on her hands resting on his chest. “People would find it completely ridiculous if they knew we were together. The hot intelligent baddie and the annoying weirdo nerd.”
Sophie froze. Her heart gave a painful, sharp squeeze. She looked at him, searching his face, horrified to find that he actually believed what he was saying.
“Benedict. Don't say that,” Sophie said, her voice dropping all its usual playfulness. “Don't ever talk about yourself like that.”
“Soph—”
“No, listen to me,” she interrupted, her hands coming up to cup his face, her perfect acrylic deep burgundy nails framing his jaw. “You are brilliant. You are handsome. You are the smartest, most passionate, most incredibly creative person I have ever met.” She paused. “Who gives really really good head.”
Benedict rolled his eyes. “Stop. You’re just saying that to make me feel good about myself.”
Sophie sighed, continuing. “I love the way your eyes light up when you talk about the films you love. I love how kind you are. I love how thoughtful you are. You call your mum every morning to check in on her and you do things before I even thought about doing them. You are not a secret I'm keeping because I'm ashamed, Benedict.”
Benedict looked at her, clearly moved, a gentle chuckle escaping his lips. He kissed her forehead. “I know you’re not ashamed of me. I’m just saying, I’m perfectly fine loving you in secret. Moments like this? Right here?”
“You mean me sitting on your dick?” Sophie interrupted teasingly.
“Be serious for a minute, Soph.” Benedict reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“What I’m trying to say is, I don’t care what Chloé, Alfie, Hazel, or even what your ex Phillip thinks of me. This is what matters to me. You and me. Right here, right now.”
Sophie furrowed her brow and leaned in to hug him. Benedict sighed as he hugged her back.
“Maybe someday we can openly go out. When you’ve shown your own collection and I’m nominated for my first BAFTA.”
He meant it as a comforting joke. But it completely broke Sophie’s heart. He genuinely thinks he belongs in the dark unless he reaches what he thinks is my level.
Sophie pulled back from the hug and fixed his skewed glasses. “Which you will win and I will be the one to dress you.”
Benedict looks down at their locked hands. “Then everyone won’t think we’re a total glitch in the simulation.”
“The Matrix, 1999. Directed by Lana and Lily Wachowski.”
Benedict's eyebrows shot up. "You got that reference?"
“I’m afraid that’s what happens when you’ve been fucking a film geek for the last six months,” Sophie chuckles. She tightened her arms around him, pulling him into a deep, desperate kiss, vowing to herself right then and there that she will find a way to make things right.
"What are you even watching?" she asked as she pulled back from the kiss, glancing at the screen where a house was silently burning in the rain.
"Mirror, Andrei Tarkovsky," he grinned. "Don't worry, it's almost over. Are you hungry? Let's eat dinner."
Sophie began to move to stand up but Benedict softly grabbed her hand. “Hey, Soph. I love you. Thank you for choosing me.”
“I love you too, Benedict, even if you’re such a softie.”
They moved into his small kitchen. Benedict immediately approached his fridge, grabbing a box of chicken nuggets and a jar of kimchi. He turned to Sophie and shook the box of nuggets.
“Please tell me you did not buy those just because the nuggets are Star Wars character shaped.”
“They were staring at me, Sophie.” He answered dramatically, pointing both of his index fingers on his temples. “I swear to you, Yoda was telling me to buy it.”
Sophie leaned against the counter, watching him. Despite his absolute nerdiness, there was something incredibly endearing and deeply caring about the way he navigated the space just to make sure she is looked after. He never wanted her to do any chores when she’s in his flat. He cooks, he cleans, he makes the bed. For all the right reasons, Benedict Bridgerton is the total package.
It’s been six months since he’s been stacking his kitchen with food she likes. Before meeting her, he didn’t eat ramen or kimchi. Now, his fridge is dominated by Korean food. She found it charming that he’s taken an interest in her culture beyond the films of Kim Jee-woon, Lee Chang-dong, and Park Chan-wook. Heck, the man replaced English beer with soju as his choice of late night drink.
Sophie smiled to herself, lost in happy thoughts, until Benedict's voice shattered the moment.
With his back still turned to her, he let out a quiet sigh. "I don't mind your friends, Sophie. Really. But... I do wish they'd stop being so mean to me. And to my passion."
Sophie was entirely taken aback by the sudden confession. Her chest tightened. "Benedict... I'm so sorry."
He shrugged his shoulders, still not turning around. "I know. It's fine." But the heavy tone of his voice made it obvious that the constant remarks weighed on him far more than he ever let on. He turned to face her. “Sorry, I don’t know what got to me but I never want to lie to you.”
Before she could say anything else, Benedict’s phone rang on the counter. He picked it up and answered a quick lyric of confirmation, and hung up. "That's the pizza guy. He’s coming up. Could you grab it?"
"I'll pay. You paid for last night’s dinner," Sophie offered immediately, already on her way for her bag.
"Nope. Not on Sauron's watch," Benedict joked with a faint smile. "My wallet’s in my jacket by the coat rack."
Sophie walked back to the entryway. She reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his worn leather wallet. She took a mental note on shopping for a new one. As she opened it to grab the cash, a small, tightly folded piece of pale pink paper slipped out, fluttering to the floor.
Curious, Sophie picked it up and unfurled it. Written in his messy, hurried handwriting was a header: Oscar Speech. Beneath it was a bulleted list of professors, friends, and family member names. But at the very bottom, underlined twice, were the words: My partner, mon étoile du nord , Sophie.
A lump formed in Sophie’s throat. She quickly refolded the paper, tucking it safely back into the leather slot, and shoved the wallet back into his jacket just as a loud knock echoed on the front door.
She paid the Deliveroo rider, grabbing the pizza box and her small paper bag from earlier when she arrived. Walking back into the kitchen, she quickly dropped the paper bag onto the table right as Benedict turned around to serve the food.
"I got you a surprise," Sophie said, a brilliant, proud smirk returning to her face as she hands him the paper bag.
Benedict looked at her suspiciously as he reached down and pulled a vintage, pristine vinyl copy of the Close Encounters of the Third Kind official soundtrack from the bag.
“Nooooo way. Where did you find this?" Benedict said in shock.
“I have my sources.” she answered smugly.
Benedict spent the next ten minutes of their dinner geeking out over the artwork of the sleeve. He waxed lyrical on why the film is still one of Spielberg’s greatest films. His enthusiasm and technical knowledge entertaining Sophie away from his confession.
“Do you think I should bring this tomorrow and have Steven sign this?” He asked sheepishly.
“Steven?,” Sophie teasingly asked. “You’re first name basis now with THE Steven Spielberg?”
“We will be after tomorrow. He will—”
Sophie leaned in, cutting him off with a deep, fierce kiss that carried every ounce of the emotion she’d been holding in. “I believe that, Ben. And you should. I’m sure, STEVEN, will be honoured to sign that for you.”
“I love you, Sophie. This is the greatest gift ever.” Benedict said enthusiastically.
“You also said that last month when I gave you a signed blu-ray copy of Magellan.”
The next morning, the bedroom was washed in soft, lazy sunlight.
Sophie blinked her eyes open, turning her head to find Benedict still sleeping deeply beside her, his curls wild against the pillow, a faint smile curled on his lips. She stared at him for a long moment. He looked so gorgeous and peaceful. I wonder what he’s dreaming about.
She rolled on her side of the bed to grab her phone and check the time. 6:23am. Three text messages from Hazel and Alfie showed up on her unread notifications.
Soph! Wanna go out tonight?
Sofehhh where the hell are you?! Are you meeting up with your mystery guy again???
I HOPE UR GETTING RAILED AS U READ THIS. LUV U!!!!
Sophie sighed and rolled on her back and stared at the ceiling as the weight of her compartmentalised life stared at her. Benedict’s walls are lined up with posters of his favourite films. One wall is full of Benedict’s paintings and sketches of her in various poses. A mixed bag of his and her clothes hang at the back of the bedroom door. His new vanity table —which he bought just so she can do her makeup when she’s staying over— is full of her makeup and perfumes. She’s laying on a Star Wars printed bedsheet. Sophie silently laughed at the visual ridiculousness of her secret life with Benedict.
Nearly an hour later, Benedict finally groaned, stirring awake. The other side of the bed was empty and cold. He blindly reached for his glasses on the nightstand, sliding them onto his face, and shuffled to the bathroom to lazily brush his teeth.
Still half-asleep, he sauntered back into the bedroom, grabbed his phone from the nightstand without looking at the screen, and made his way to the kitchen in search of coffee.
He blinked in surprise when he found Sophie, already dressed up in a pale blue sundress, sitting comfortably by the kitchen counter, typing away on her phone.
“Mornin’. I thought you have class at 8? Why are you still here?” He said sleepily as he dropped his phone facedown next to her on the counter.
Benedict approached her with eyes closed as he slid his body in between her thighs. He wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face deep into the crook of her neck, letting out a content, sleepy mumble.
Sophie smiled, her fingers gently weaving through his messy hair, holding him close against the bright morning light as she finished fumbling with her phone. “I was about to leave when Professor Waight-Keller informed she’s moving the class later this afternoon.”
Benedict opened his mouth to speak but a barrage of text notifications erupted from his phone, cutting him off before he could say a word. He frowned and picked up his phone. He has 53 unread text messages, all from his film school friends, and more incoming.
Matt: DUDE. WHAT IS THIS.
Riley: HOW??? ARE YOU DREAMING OR DEAD?
Chantal: Bridgerton! Explain this right now or I’m stealing your camera gear.
Prof Świątek: You found your Bergman, Bridgerton.
Joaquim: Bro look at Instagram right now.
Agnès: Don’t forget me now that you’re famous!!!
Lionel: What the fcuk… did you hack her?
Sophie watched amused as Benedict opened Instagram. His notifications tab was a literal red wall of activities.
“Did someone die?!” He asked, confused.
He tapped on Sophie’s story because he always wants to see and like what she posts. Upon seeing her posts, his body went cold.
Sophie’s first story features a selfie of herself in his kitchen with a caption: Happy Disclosure Day! To celebrate this day, here’s my one true disclosure….
The next story features a photo from this morning, clearly taken by her. It was a beautiful shot of Benedict fast asleep, his messy curls splayed across his Darth Vader pillow, a sliver of morning sunlight hitting his face. Right across his chest, written in a clean, elegant font, was a single caption: FULL DISCLOSURE: ily @benedict.bridgerton.films
Benedict stared at the screen, slack jawed. The posts and tag are completely public. His username is tapable, directing her thousands of followers straight to his insanely nerdy public profile with 103 followers.
He slowly looked up from his phone.
Sophie was leaning against the counter cabinet, a brilliant, proud, unapologetic smirk plastered across her face.
“Glitch in the simulation, huh?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Get dressed, Bridgerton. You’re taking your girlfriend out for pancakes. Publicly.”