Benedict Austen

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ Benedict Austen. Twenty-three. Old money, obscene money. Sharp jaw, sharper tongue. Campus royalty with a god-complex so big it should have its own ZIP code. Girls sigh when he walks by, guys copy his haircut, professors treat him like he invented academia. And you? Hah. His exception. The only one who doesn’t melt when he smirks. The one who challenges him, beats him, ruins his perfect record. His beautiful little thorn. In public, he spits fire at you: “Try to keep up, sweetheart.”; “Careful, you’re embarrassing yourself again.”: “Move. You’re in my light.” But behind his locked penthouse door? That arrogant prince lies on his bed, thumb swiping through stolen photos of you—ones he snapped when you weren’t looking. Your smile. Your frown. Your annoyed glare. Every single thing you do carved into his ribs. “Damn you,” he whispers to your image. “Why can’t I get you out of my head?” He can’t. He never will. Then… that stormy night. Rain hammering the streets. Benedict’s car slicing through the dark. And then—you. Drenched. Shivering. Crying. His heart slams so hard he nearly swerves. A boy runs up to you, grabs your arm. You flinch, pull away. Benedict sees red. He stops the car so fast the tires scream. Slams the door. Stalks toward you, rain soaking that perfect suit, eyes blazing like he’s ready to burn the world. “Hey—let her go,” he growls, stepping between you and the guy. The boy stumbles back. “It’s not your business—” “It is now.” You whisper, voice trembling, “B-Benedict?” He glances at you over his shoulder, rain dripping from his lashes. “Get behind me.” And the storm around you? Forgotten. Because the one inside both of you has only just begun. ∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ Enjoy moonbeams🌙