Archive of Our Own

7

Penelope turns seven on a Wednesday in April. There is a party, finally, after years of begging, but it is full of unfamiliar faces. Children of her father’s colleagues who look at her like she doesn’t belong in her own home, at her own party, and Penelope, already at seven, believes they’re right.

She spends the entire day transitioning between the courtyard, where the adults are drinking, and the garden, where the kids are playing without her. She hovers on the outskirts, watching, and is only pulled into the centre when the cake arrives. It’s yellow, of course, and Penelope frowns when she sees it, but only for a moment because her mother’s eyes narrow in warning and Penelope’s face straightens on reflex.

Everyone gathers around her to sing, Penelope standing behind the cake and watching the candles burn, their small flames wavering each time someone shifts or laughs. Her father is by the door with a glass in his hand. Her mother is watching the photographer. Prudence and Philippa have claimed the seats closest to the cake, already eyeing the frosting.

Penelope knows she is meant to make a wish and closes her eyes, trying to think of anything worth wishing for. The song ends before she’s ready, the crowd murmuring her name like they had forgotten it, and she presses her eyes closed. Makes a wish. When she opens them, her sisters have blown the candles out for her, and the crowd laughs. Penelope's ears and cheeks tint red, a horrible feeling sinking low in her belly. Her eyes burn, but then her mother is right there, muttering don’t you dare as she cuts into the cake.

Slices go to the guests, then to Prudence, then to Philippa. Penelope watches the yellow icing disappear onto paper plates. When she reaches for a slice, her mother's hand closes around her wrist.

"You've had enough sweets today," Portia says. Her voice is pleasant, company-bright.

Across the room, her father is still by the window. He is looking at the garden, or perhaps at nothing. Penelope watches him, waiting. He doesn't turn.

The party ends. The guests leave. Penelope helps collect the crumpled napkins and paper plates, the debris of a celebration that was hers in name only. In the kitchen, she finds a plate with a smear of yellow icing still clinging to the edge. She looks over her shoulder. No one is watching.so

She presses her fingertip to it and brings it to her mouth.

It's too sweet, and the colour is still wrong, but already she has learned to take what she can get.

10

At ten, Eloise remembers her birthday before Penelope does. They have been friends for nearly a year at this point, introduced by Colin after Penelope gave him a bloody nose from a poorly aimed, but well-thrown frisbee. She had cried, he had laughed, and before Penelope knew what was happening, a brown-haired girl clutching a book in her hands was bounding over to them shouting, that was bloody well done, and the rest was history. Penelope and Eloise became attached at the hip, and Penelope became folded into the Bridgerton family as if she were always meant to be there.

Today, Eloise finds her before the first bell and announces it’s my best friend’s birthday to anyone who is within earshot. Penelope feels her face go warm. She had left the house quietly this morning, without any fanfare or any birthday wishes, and had told herself that was what she preferred.

"What are you doing tonight?" Eloise asks excitedly, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Already, at ten, she towers above Penelope. "Is there a party? Can I come?"

"Er, No?"

Eloise goes very still. “No? No, I can’t come?”

“No! No, no, no. I meant there is no party,” Penelope shrugs. "We are not doing anything."

“Your mother isn’t having cake and ice lollies? Not even a cupcake?”

“Nope,” Penelope says, punctuating the word with a pop. “We don’t really celebrate birthdays.”

“Prudence had a sweet sixteen last year with a hundred people!”

“Well, not this year,” Penelope says, busying herself with collecting her books. “I guess that’s just for important birthdays?”

“My Dad says every birthday is important because every person is important and their birthday is the one day a year, at minimum, they should be celebrated.”

“Well, your Dad is very kind.”

Eloise’s face does that thing where it pinches together in confusion, her mouth opening and closing while she enacts the rare instance where she is choosing to think before she speaks.

Then:

“Well, that is utter shit, Pen, honestly. You will come home with me.”

Eloise says it matter-of-factly, shrugging as if it were settled, and Penelope knows better than to argue because arguing with Eloise should be saved for only the things that matter most, so she doesn’t. She just walks in line with her friend and hopes that by the time the last bell of the day rings, she will have forgotten the whole thing, because Eloise can be just as flighty as she can be incredibly obsessive. And, for a bit, Penelope thinks maybe that is exactly what happens. It isn’t mentioned as they start their walk home, or when the square comes into view. But when Penelope leans in to say goodbye at the fork in the road where she needs to go left, and Eloise needs to go right, Eloise merely grabs her wrist and pulls her along.

“We are celebrating,” Eloise says, three steps ahead and her grip far too tight.

“El, I don’t want to be a bother—”

“Ugh, never. You know who is a bother? Literally every single person in the world except you, Pen.”

Eloise is announcing it is Penelope's birthday before the front door is even fully open, and Penelope opens her mouth to apologise, to insist that nothing is necessary, but Violet, heavily pregnant, has already appeared and is pulling her into a hug. She presses a kiss to Penelope’s head and mumbles something Penelope cannot make out over the sea of Bridgertons that have descended upon her to wish her a happy day. Penelope has been here hundreds of times in the past year, spent the night, camped out in the garden, stayed for meals. The house is loud and chaotic and, at times, a bit too much, and every time Penelope feels like she is getting used to it, she is proven wrong.

The Bridgertons are loud and tactile and loving, and Penelope has no idea how to respond to it all. She fears tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, feels her eyes burn as she tries to blink them away, and just when she is about to feel them fall, Violet pulls her into another hug and starts steering her towards the kitchen, as she announces a cake is absolutely necessary for such a celebration.

Penelope stands in the doorway of the kitchen for a long moment, unsure what to do with herself. She is accustomed to being on the periphery, to watching from the edges while life happens around her. But Eloise pulls her forward, presses a wooden spoon into her hand, and Penelope finds herself stirring batter while Violet sings softly and Eloise argues about icing.

The kitchen is warm and loud and dusted with flour. Penelope cracks eggs when asked. She measures sugar. She watches as Violet moves through the mess with ease, touching Eloise's shoulder as she passes and adjusting Penelope's grip on the whisk without comment or correction. It’s a gift to be here, she knows, but still she feels full of grief.

When the cake is ready for the oven, Violet hands Penelope the spatula.

"Best part," she grins. "Go on."

Penelope looks at her, waiting for the caveat, the condition, the quiet correction that always follows. It does not come. Violet simply nods, and Penelope brings the spatula to her mouth, and the batter tastes like sugar and butter and a hint of almond that Violet says is her special ingredient.

She is still thinking about it much later when Colin appears, tall and gangly, holding something behind his back. Edmund is beside him, urging him quietly to cross the room.

"Close your eyes," he says, and she does, because he asked, because she trusts him. She feels something placed on her head, then hears the crinkle of paper as his hands adjust it just so.

"There," he says quietly, and when she opens her eyes, they meet his immediately. His smile grows wider. "Like a proper Bridgerton."

Penelope reaches up with shaky hands, pulling the hat off her head so she can look at it. It is crooked, with bright colours and her name in Colin’s messy penmanship, and it is the most remarkable thing she has ever been given. She feels the tears again, hot against her cheeks now, and she is placing that hat back on her head and wiping them off when Daphne comes out with the cake. It is a bit uneven, because Violet let her and Eloise fill the pans, but it is still pretty, with rainbow sprinkles and candles—ten, plus one for good luck.

The family gathers around her, and they sing chaotically and off-key, and it is perfect.

She closes her eyes. Blows out the candles.

When she opens them again, Colin is still smiling at her.

15

At night, these days, Bridgerton House is too quiet. The house seemingly went dormant after Edmund died, Violet falling into a pit of depression, the children falling into whatever role helped them function the best, and Penelope there, always, doing whatever was needed for whoever needed it. Those first few years after he died were hazy in recollection, the sadness a burden that kept them from the light for far too long, but this past year has seen too many changes as time finally, finally began to pass at a normal speed. Anthony and Benedict have left home for adulthood, Daphne too, away at the posh Boarding school Eloise and Colin refused. Franny present, but not present, which leaves Eloise, Penelope, and the littlest ones to fill in with noise, because Colin is always coming and going.

Tonight, she lies in bed beside Eloise, who is snoring softly, and feels jarred at how silence fills the space where chaos used to be. The constant motion of all things Bridgerton used to overwhelm her; now, Penelope finds she misses when this house never slept. When there was always someone awake, always footsteps on the stairs, always laughter or arguing or the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Edmund used to stay up late reading in his study, and Violet would fall asleep on the sofa waiting for him, and the children would sneak down for biscuits and get caught and not get in trouble because Edmund thought it was funny. The chaos was constant. Penelope had found it overwhelming at first, then comforting, then necessary.

Now the silence sits heavy in the spaces where the noise used to be.

Outside, there is a crash. Penelope turns her head toward the window. Another clatter, metallic, like bins being knocked over. She waits for it to stop, but it doesn’t, and she slides out of bed, careful not to stir Eloise, who simply snores louder. She pads to the window and peers through the curtain, but the square is dark, and she cannot see much, and what little drowsiness she had is now gone, so she grabs her book and decides to pad downstairs to read until sleep can find her once more.

She is filling a glass at the sink when she hears the back door open. She freezes, her hand tightening on the glass, gaze jerking up to see Colin stumbling through the doorway, catching himself on the frame. He swears under his breath as he stumbles again. His hair is wild and his shirt is untucked and there is a stain on the collar that looks like lipstick. He squints into the darkness, sees her, and stops.

"Pen?"

She sets the glass down with unsteady hands. “Yeah, sorry, I—I was just getting some water.”

He closes the door behind him, quieter than she would expect from someone who nearly fell through it. "What are you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep. And then I heard something outside."

"Probably me. I knocked over the bins."

He grins, sheepish, and crosses to the sink. He stands close enough that she can smell him. He stinks of beer and cigarette smoke and a cloying fragrance that makes her nauseous because she recognises it immediately as Emma Stillwell’s signature clearance section scent, and she steps back instantly to give him room, pressing herself against the counter. With a thick swallow, she watches him run water over his hands and tries very, very hard not to think about where those hands have been.

Penelope’s connection with Eloise all those years ago was fast, but the connection she felt with Colin was instant. He laughed when she expected yelling, smiled when she deserved none, and his kindness and his warmth were imprinted on her in a way that she still does not wholly understand. Over the years, she has watched him grow into his height and into the Bridgerton looks and perfect a persona of nonchalance and humour that fades into authenticity whenever they are alone. Over the years, Penelope has memorised the sound of his laugh and the slope of his shoulders and how he runs his fingers through his hair when he is thinking.

She has spent the past year pretending this means nothing, but as time moves on and the distance and age between them start to feel insurmountable, it is getting harder to pretend.

Tonight, at dinner, he had announced he was going out. A party, he said. He did not say whose. He came downstairs in a shirt she had never seen before, smelling like aftershave, and Penelope had looked at her plate and said nothing. Eloise had teased him about a girl. Colin had neither confirmed nor denied. He had just smiled, grabbed his jacket, and left.

Penelope had spent the rest of the evening trying not to imagine what he was doing. She failed, her mind imagining every scenario in vivid, horrible detail, and she hated herself for caring, and still,she cared anyway.

Now he is here, in the dark kitchen, with lipstick on his collar and perfume on his skin, and Penelope feels jealousy burn hot and bright in her belly and push up, up, up until she feels sick with it.

Colin turns off the tap. Dries his hands on his jeans. He looks at her, and for a moment his expression shifts into a familiar fondness, a smile breaking across his perfect mouth.

"Hey," he says brightly. "It's gone midnight."

Penelope follows his gaze. The clock reads 12:09.

"Happy birthday, Pen."

He says it simply, the way he says everything, like it costs him absolutely nothing.

Then he leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek.

His lips are warm and dry, and after less than a second, he is already pulling away, already turning towards the stairs. When he reaches the foot of them, he turns back, lifting a hand in a small, awkward wave, before disappearing.

She presses her fingers to her cheek and holds them there for a long time.

19

University is a revelation in the absolute best way. For the first time in her life, Penelope exists outside the shadow of Portia’s expectations and the cruelty of those who watched the Featheringtons fall so epically from grace after her father’s scandal and subsequent death. At uni, she cuts her hair short, and joins societies and goes to parties and finds that people, lots of people, actually, like her. She wears colours Portia would hate. She dyes her hair. She kisses boys at clubs and does not apologise for it.

She also, quietly and deliberately, builds a life without Colin Bridgerton in it.

I would never date Pen, he had announced to an entire goddamn party, which, okay, fine. But then he continued on, needlessly, saying she’s like my sister, mate. Barely even my friend, and these words felt pretty disingenuous and wrong after he spent most of the preceding summer by her side, writing and reading and using her to build him up enough so he had the courage to tell Anthony he was quitting school. So she told him to fuck off, and blocked his number and unfollowed him on every social media platform she could think of—even MySpace, which is embarrassingly still active. She took a break from Bridgerton outings he might attend, which weren’t many because he spent the year travelling.

Tonight, it has been a year of constant motion, of moving on, and trying so very hard not to miss him at every turn, even while maintaining distance from him. Tonight, she turns nineteen, and she is celebrating with a fancy dinner she can barely afford and a night dancing at the club, which she desperately needs. Eloise snaps a photo of her blowing out the candles on her cake at dinner and posts it to her socials.

She drinks too much. She dances. She lets herself be happy, or close to it.

Her phone buzzes around midnight. She glances at the screen, and her stomach drops.

WanderingcColleyB has tagged you in a comment.

She blocked him on her phone. On Facebook. Even on email. But this platform is new, one she joined only last month, and she had not thought to block him here. She had not thought he would find her. She had not thought that after a year of silence, he was maybe, possibly, still looking for her attention.

The message is simple: Happy birthday, Pen! I hope it's a good day. You deserve all good things x

She stares at it for a long time. Types a response. Deletes it. Types another response. Deletes that too. She is about to ask Eloise to delete the photo when the guy from her Chaucer seminar finds her at the bar. He is nice and tall and handsome, and when he asks if he can buy her a drink, she says yes. And when he asks her to dance, she says yes. And when he asks her if she would like to go back to his, she says yes to that too because it’s her birthday, and she likes sex, and she has learned, in this past year of self-discovery, that people do like her, and want her, even if it isn’t the person she wishes would.

So she goes back to his flat, and lets him eat her out until she comes, and then fucks him until she comes again.

She doesn’t think about Colin during (even though he is there, always in the periphery of her brain), but after, when she slips into this guy's bathroom and sits on the toilet to pee, she pulls out her phone and opens the notification for the hundredth time. Clicks on his profile. It’s full of photos from the last year, spanning from Scotland to Greece to Asia too. The photos are full of sun and places she will likely only ever see in photographs, full of people she does not recognise, full of a man she would recognise anywhere, but whose smile is only ever half there.

The missing hits her so fiercely she nearly doubles over.

She has spent a year trying to cut him out, and it has not worked. She does not know if it ever will, and she misses him so much it makes her feel hollow and too full at once. She can live without him, without being loved by him. She is not sure she can live without knowing him.

She types out a reply. Deletes it. Types it again.

Thanks, Col.

She hits send before she can change her mind.

27

Twenty-seven greets her while she is in New York on an unmovable, mandatory work trip. It is the first birthday she has spent without El or Colin or any of the other Bridgertons by her side since that very first one at ten. She is there for two weeks, and as the date looms closer, she tells herself this is fine. She is an adult and has a job she loves, and a cosy little efficiency in the heart of Chelsea instead of a hotel. She can, and will, make her own celebration.

Eloise offered to fly out, but Penelope insisted she stay, because that felt like too much, and even though Penelope has spent the better part of the last twenty years learning how to take up space and not feel guilty for it, she never wants to be too much for the people who matter most. So, she sucks it up. Plans to order Thai and cupcakes from the fancy bakery a few minutes away, and watch her favourite trash television.

The knock on her door comes at half past nine in the morning.

She assumes it is a delivery, but when she opens the door, Colin is standing there in a rumpled jacket with a wilting bouquet in his hand.

"Happy birthday, Pen."

She is so stunned she cannot speak. Can only stand there in her pyjamas, hair unwashed, staring at him like he might be a hallucination. He grins at her and steps past her into the apartment, already looking around, already making himself at home.

"Smells a bit like cat," he says.

"Colin."

"Pen-el-ope."

Her mouth twists. "What are you doing here?"

When he turns to face her, he’s still grinning. "Did you really think I was going to let you spend your birthday alone?"

She does not have an answer for this. She takes the flowers from him because it gives her shaking hands a task; she should not be surprised by his present, but she is. The past several years have seen a rebuilding of their friendship, of finding their way back to each other. It was slow at first, and then he moved home a year ago now and suddenly he is once again woven into the very fabric of her life—the first person she texts when something good happens and the first person she calls when something falls apart. He is her date to weddings and work events, her plus-one when she cannot face a room alone.

They are friends, the best of friends, and still, sometimes, she is shocked at just how good he is.

Turns out he has a full day planned, his itinerary a detailed, bullet-pointed list on his notes app. He takes her to brunch, then to a bookshop in the Village he read about online. They walk through the park. They find a bakery that sells cupcakes he insists are the best in Manhattan, and they are not, but they eat two each anyway. He is bright and present, full of energy, and Penelope lets herself be carried along by it. She does not think about what it means that he is here. She has gotten very good at not thinking about what things mean.

It is late afternoon when she notices him flagging.

They are walking along the Highline, and Colin stumbles slightly on a crack in the pavement. He catches himself, laughs it off, but she sees it now. The shadows beneath his eyes. The slight haze in his expression. How he keeps blinking too slowly.

"Colin. When did you sleep last?"

He waves a hand. "I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked."

He is quiet for a moment. Then: "I don't know. Thirty-six hours? There was a delay in London. Then the flight got rerouted to Boston and then delayed there, too. I almost didn't make it."

Penelope stops walking. "You've been awake for thirty-six hours."

"Forty, maybe? I lost count."

"And you didn't think to tell me?! We could have just stayed in. You didn't have to—"

"I wasn't going to waste it." He says it simply. His eyes meet hers, and for a moment his face is open in a way she rarely sees. "I only get one day."

She does not know what to do with this.

He was supposed to have a long weekend. She learns this later, when she presses him. He booked the flights weeks ago, carved out the time, planned to give her three full days in New York. The delays stole it from him, whittled it down to hours, and he came anyway. He spent those hours walking around the city with her, eating bad cupcakes, pretending he was fine.

She insists they go back. He argues, but weakly, and by the time they reach her apartment, he is barely keeping his eyes open. She points him toward the couch. He sits down, still protesting that he should go find his hotel, that he is fine, that he does not want to be a burden on her birthday, and she is struck, suddenly, at just how alike they are in this, too, and shushes him.

By the time she drapes a blanket over his shoulders, his eyes are closed, and for the longest time after, she stands there, watching him sleep.

Ten feels so far away; the person she was then barely recognisable to the person she is now, but she can still remember standing in the Bridgerton kitchen with a ridiculous paper hat on her head, being sung to like she was loved, like she belonged. The Bridgertons taught her she was worth celebrating. Colin keeps proving it. He keeps showing up, keeps crossing whatever distance stands between them, keeps refusing to let her be alone. She had learned, years ago, that this is simply who he is—a good son, a good brother, the best of friends. She had learned, years ago, for that to be enough.

But tonight, she feels the hope rise and catch, and she lets it, just for a moment, before letting it go.

30

She spots him across the room halfway through her third drink. It is coincidental, really, because this is London, but London is also very small when you’ve loved someone and their circles overlap around the edges. It is her birthday, her thirtieth, and she is surrounded by Bridgertons and friends and the warm hum of people who showed up to celebrate her. The second book comes out in six weeks. She is happy, genuinely happy, the kind of happy she spent years convincing herself she did not deserve and then later that she would never be able to obtain.

Declan catches her gaze, holds it, smiles. She smiles back, and when he holds up his glass to her in a salute, his mouth moving along to what she can only imagine is happy birthday, she realises it would be rude not to say hello. She excuses herself from the tablet quietly, and crosses the room, despite the protests from El and a look from Colin.

They were friends first, before they were ever anything more, and while things did not end badly between them, they did end, and it was mostly his decision.

He sees her coming and smiles, and she is struck by how easy it is. There is no bitterness in his face, no awkwardness in the way he pulls her into a hug. He smells different than she remembers, a new aftershave, and she wonders if there is someone else now who picked it out for him.

They find a corner of the bar and talk. He asks about the book, and she tells him. She asks about his work, and he tells her. They talk about mutual friends, about the city, about nothing important at all. It is every bit as comfortable as it shouldn't be. Feels like two friends catching up after years apart rather than ex-lovers who might have had something real if the timing had been different.

She can feel someone watching her. She looks up, finds Colin’s gaze immediately. Watches his eyebrow raise, questioning are you okay? She waves him off, and turns back to Declan, who is looking more fit and more settled now than he ever did when they were together. She takes a moment to appreciate him, all of him, and despite the distance between what they were and what they are now, there is a contentment about him that makes her glad. She hopes he is happy. She hopes whoever comes next deserves him.

The question slips out before she can stop it.

"Why didn't it work out? With us?"

Declan pauses, his pint halfway to his mouth. He sets it down. Looks at her for a long moment, his expression shifting, just briefly, to incredulousness before fading.

"Come on, Pen." His voice is gentle. "You know."

She shakes her head. "I really don't."

His gaze is scrutinising, a bit unnerving, and it lasts one beat, then several, before he sighs and flicks his gaze over her shoulder, just briefly.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "You do."

Penelope turns.

Colin is standing by the bar, drink in hand, watching them.

She turns back to Declan. Her mouth is dry.

"I didn't want to be settled for," he says. There is no cruelty in it, only honesty. "I liked you too much for that. And you were never really mine, Pen. Not fully. I think we both knew that, even if you couldn't see why."

She wants to deny it, but she cannot find the words, because the truth of it feels both astounding and also, inexplicably, inevitable. And, suddenly, he is leaning forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and she feels disoriented as he squeezes her arm once, albeit briefly.

"Be happy," he says. "You deserve that. Even if it takes you a while to believe it."

And then he is gone, swallowed by the crowd, and Penelope is standing alone with the truth sitting heavy on her chest. She does not have time to sit with it, because Kate and Eloise appear through the crowd, a cake held between them, candles lit and flickering. Colin, too, finding her gaze and keeping it as Bridgertons descend, loud and overlapping, and suddenly she is surrounded by people singing to her, off-key and joyful.

Someone shouts, "Make a wish, Pen!" but her eyes are still on Colin, watching him watch her, and it takes a beat to ground herself in the present and not in the kaleidoscope of memories and moments that are suddenly playing on repeat.

She holds his gaze. Blows the candles out.

He does not look away, neither does she, and this time, when the hope rises, she allows it catch and resists the urge to let it go.

(31¾)

A week ago, he gave her a first edition Emma for Christmas.

Penelope opened it at Bridgerton house, surrounded by wrapping paper and noise, and felt the flush grow on her cheeks instantly from both the absolute enormity of the gift but also the gasp from Daphne and the wide eyes of Violet. It was her favourite book, and Colin knew this, of course, because she had told him once, years ago in a conversation she remembers precisely, but she never expected him to. She traced the spine with her fingers and looked up at him, and he shrugged, easy, like it was nothing. Like he had not spent god knows how much money tracking down a first edition of a book she mentioned loving at twelve.

Over the past several days, she has caught herself staring at it, running her fingers along the cover as she passes by the bookshelf where it sits, safely snuggled between her first novel and a picture of her, Colin, and El from yesteryear. It feels like a taunt, a dare, but also, inexplicably, like a promise.

Even now, nearly two years later, Declan's voice plays on a loop in her head: you know.

And maybe she does. Maybe she has known for longer than she is willing to admit, reading the signs and then unreading them, convincing herself she is imagining things because the alternative is too terrifying to consider. She has loved Colin Bridgerton for most of her life. The thought that he might love her back feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and being asked to jump.

What if she is wrong?

What if she says something, does something, and he looks at her with confusion, or worse, pity? What if she ruins the best friendship she has ever had for something she conjured out of hope and want and decades of wishful thinking?

She cannot be the one to say it first. She cannot.

But tonight, she decides, she will open the door. She will make it easy for him. She will stop hiding, stop concealing her want and affection and endless love for him because she thinks (and hopes, hopes, hopes!) that maybe he is scared too.

It is New Year’s, and her editor demands black-tie attire for every event. It is a nonstarter that Colin accompanies her, because he accompanies her everywhere these days, always by her side. And even though he complains every single time he has to dig out his tux, she is aware it is only half-hearted because she suspects he knows just how good he looks in it.

They stand in front of her mirror, Colin in the tux he bought for Anthony's wedding, the one that somehow fits even better now. Penelope is in a black dress she spent too much money on because she wanted, just once, to look like she belonged next to him.

"We look good together, don't we?"

She means it to sound light. It does not, and she leans forward, closer to the mirror, carefully applying her lip stain just to have something to do with her hands, something to focus on that is not the way he is looking at her.

Their gazes catch in the mirror.

She smiles. Soft. Almost coy. Watches his throat move as he swallows.

"Are you alright?" she asks quietly, after a long moment, as she trails her finger along the line of her mouth, cleaning the edges of the stain. She is looking at the mirror, not at him, but she can feel his gaze on her. "You would tell me, right? If there was something you needed to say?"

She holds her breath.

"Of course," he says.

Her face falls before she can stop it.

She looks away. Busies herself with her lipstick again, even though there is nothing left to fix, sighing a little. And hours later, at midnight, when the room erupts, Colin pulls her into a hug and presses his mouth to her temple.

Happy New Year, Pen, he murmurs against her hair.

She holds onto him a moment longer than she should.

And, in the spirit of a new year, she wishes for bravery.

32

She kisses him first. In the million and one scenarios she has conjured about this moment, that has never, ever been a possibility. This is the first thought. Her only real thought, actually, because Colin’s mouth is on hers and his hands are in her hair, and she is finally, finally on the verge of getting everything she has ever wanted.

They stumble through the door, mouths still fused, and she registers the click of it shutting behind them before her back hits the wood. Colin presses into her, his body a solid weight against hers, and she arches into him without thinking. Their height difference is ridiculous, and she grabs at the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer even though there is no closer left to get.

Two years, she thinks, or twenty, or thirty—her mind won't fix on a number. She thinks of the wedding where they danced too close, his hand at the small of her back, his breath warm against her ear, and how she had turned her head just slightly, offering her mouth, and he had pulled away to fetch her another drink. She thinks of the company picnic, how he had brushed grass from her shoulder and held his fingers there too long, and she had looked up at him, and he had looked away. She thinks of the New Year's Eve mirror, her question—you would tell me, right?—and his of course, and the way her face had fallen, and he had not noticed, or had noticed and had still said nothing.

She thinks of the terrace last night, his hand at her neck, their reflection in the mirror, and the silence that had stretched between them until she stepped away because she could not bear to be the one who moved first again, always, always.

She thinks of this morning, the zip of her dress, his knuckles against her spine, the way he had frozen at her inhale and apologised, and she had wanted to scream don't apologise, don't stop, just—but she had said nothing, because she has spent her life learning to take what she can get, to be grateful for scraps, and she is so tired, so fucking tired, of being grateful.

His mouth is on her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat. She tips her head back, eyes fluttering shut, and feels the old machinery spinning up, the reflex to wait, to let him set the pace, to be the one who is chosen rather than the one who chooses.

No.

The word is sudden, rising from somewhere below thought. She has waited for him to cross every distance, to make every move. She has waited through decades of almosts and nearlys and silent moments that stretched too long. She has watched him try and fail and try and fail, has felt his want in every glance and gesture, and still he has said nothing, nothing, and she is done waiting for a man who cannot find the words she has been choking on herself since she was fifteen.

She fists her hands in his shirt and pulls him back to her mouth, and it is not gentle, it is not patient, it is a demand—two years of this play-acting, twenty of wanting, thirty-two of learning to take what she can get and finally, finally, refusing.

"Finally,” she murmurs against his mouth, and she means it, she means all of it, the kisses and the confessions and the years of silence they might have avoided if either of them had been brave enough to speak first.

But she is speaking now. She is kissing him now. And if he needs her to be the one who moves, who names it, who drags them both across the line he has spent his life drawing and erasing—then so be it.

Colin kisses her like he means it, like he wishes to devour her, and she recognises that want all too well. His mouth slants over hers, hot and seeking, and when his tongue slides against hers, she whimpers and moans and he swallows it easily, his hands moving from her hair to her waist, spanning the entire width of her as his thumbs press into the soft curve above her hips.

She wants to climb inside him. She wants him to devour her. Needs it, actually.

Colin breaks the kiss, and she nearly protests until she feels his mouth on her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat. He drags his lips down, wet and open, and she tips her head back against the door, eyes fluttering shut, pulse thready beneath his tongue. Her hands slide up into his hair, holding him there and pulling, just a little, to test a theory. He grins. She tugs again, harder this time, and he moans.

At her hips, his fingers ruin the silk there, bunching it until the hem is in his hands and his palms are flat against the skin and lace. He pauses then, fingers digging in, and when he looks at her his pupils are blown to black, his mouth parted. There is hunger there, yes, but also, underneath it, a reverence that shocks her, but she barely has time to register before he is holding her gaze and sinking lower, lower, lower until he is on his knees and his mouth is pressing against the silk at the softness of her belly.

He murmurs something there, and she only knows this because she can feel the vibrations ricochet along her spine, but she cannot make out the words because he is on his knees before her, and the sight of it makes her completely untethered.

His hands slide up the outside of her thighs, pushing her dress higher, and the cool air against her skin shocks her back into her body. He is eye level with her hips now, his breath warm through the thin cotton of her knickers, and she can see his chest rising and falling, unsteady.

"Pen,” he gasps. "I need—"

He stops. Swallows hard. His fingers flex against her thighs.

"Please." His voice cracks with the word. "Can I?”

She swallows thickly, unable to do anything but look down at him. At Colin Bridgerton, on his knees, begging for permission. She tries to find something light to say, anything to cut through the enormity of this moment.

"You want it that bad?" is what falls out of her mouth, but it comes out too breathless, followed by her gasp as he presses a kiss to her bare thigh.

He does not smile. Does not look away.

"You." His voice cracks. "I have always wanted you."

She nods once, and then, suddenly, he is on her. His fingers hook under the lace of her knickers and drag them down, his knuckles grazing her skin as he does. She doesn’t remember stepping out of them, doesn’t remember kicking off her shoes, doesn’t remember much of anything because it is a split second of cool air against her cunt and then her thigh is hooked over his shoulder and his mouth is on her, and jesus, she can feel his smile against her, feel the vibrations of the moan he released at first taste and already—already—it is too much.

"Fuck," she breathes, head falling back against the door with a thud. "Colin—"

He responds by spreading her wider with his fingers, tilting her hips so he can get deeper, and she can feel his groan more than hear it. His grip on her thigh tightens, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and she likes it. Wants more of it. Wants him to mark every inch of her, make her his.

"More," she manages. "I need—"

He gives her more. Slides two fingers into her, crooking them up, pressing into the spot that makes her vision white out at the edges. His mouth finds her clit, and he sucks, hard, and she jerks against him with a cry.

"There," she gasps. "Right there, don't stop—"

He does not stop. He fucks her with his fingers, deep and steady, his tongue circling her clit in tight, relentless passes. She can hear how wet she is, the obscene sound of his fingers sliding in and out of her, and it should be embarrassing, but it is not. It is the hottest thing she has ever heard.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath ragged against her.

"I have thought about this,” he pants. "Every fucking night, Pen. The taste of you. The sounds you make."

She looks down at him. His mouth is slick with her, his chin shining, and he is looking up at her like she is holy. Like he would stay on his knees forever if she let him.

"Then make me come.”

He groans and dives back in, his mouth greedy now, sucking her clit between his lips as his fingers drive deeper. She can feel the tension coiling in her belly, tighter with every thrust of his hand, every pass of his tongue. Her thighs are shaking. Her fingers are twisted in his hair, pulling hard enough that it must hurt, but he just moans into her cunt like he wants more, like he wants everything, all of her, and that thought is the beginning of the end—

"Colin—" His name comes out broken. "I'm going to—"

He curls his fingers and sucks hard, and the orgasm rips through her, white-hot and blinding, and she cries out as it hits, her hips grinding against his face. He works her through it, his tongue slowing but not stopping, lapping at her as she shakes.

She is still trembling when he adds a third finger.

"Oh god—" She nearly sobs. "I can't—"

"You can." His voice is rough, commanding. "Give me another one, Pen."

He curls his fingers again, pressing into that spot, and his mouth latches onto her clit. He is relentless. She can feel the second wave building before she has recovered from the first, cresting higher and faster, and when it crashes over her, she screams. Actually screams, loud enough that anyone in the hallway could hear, and she does not care.

Her knees buckle. He catches her, one arm banding around her waist, holding her up as she shakes apart against the door. She cannot feel her legs. Cannot feel anything except the aftershocks pulsing through her and his mouth pressing soft kisses to her inner thigh.

He rises slowly, trailing his lips up her body as he goes. Her hip. Her belly. The underside of her breast. When he reaches her mouth, he kisses her, and she can taste herself on his tongue, can smell herself on his skin.

"Bed," she croaks.

And he does this insanely sexy thing where he carries her there, but trips, and half stumbles over his suitcase because the room is still too small, and they make it to the bed a tangled mess of limbs and laughter as they fall together into place. Together they kiss, and toe off their shoes, pressing them with their feet until they tumble off the bed. And then he is sitting back on his knees, shedding his jacket, and the eye contact he keeps makes her swallow thickly. And then he’s on her again, kissing her again, but this is softer, gentler than anything they have shared thus far; it unsettles, and it unhinges. Her hands are unsteady as she works the buttons of his shirt and slides a thigh between his, they tremble as they help him remove his trousers, his boxers.

His hands slide along the muscles of her thighs, pushing her dress up and over her head. She watches his face for a moment after, his mouth falling open as he traces the lines and curves of her. She feels embarrassed in her worn and faded bra, the one she uses because it works, but his hands are deft, his exploration of her soft and reverent. He traces patterns into her skin, follows the dips and curves of her slowly as if he is making a memory of her.

Every move he makes feels full of certainty and purpose. It leaves her afire, and when he guides her mouth to his with just a touch to her jaw, her heart feels so full and tight in her chest that it takes the breath right out of her.

I love you she thinks, and feels, and just sort of says, the words bursting out of her unbidden.

There is no room for pretence, awkwardness, or half-truths between them. Not anymore.

Colin pulls back to look at her, suddenly very serious. "Yeah?"

"Yes."

The force of his kiss echoes deep in her bones.

And this, Penelope remembers all too well: Colin is methodical, all conscious thought and careful decisions until he isn't.

Until she moans his name around a soft, desperate please, and suddenly he is everywhere. Removing clothing, pushing and pulling against her with fingers tangling in her hair, tracing the long angle of her neck, pressing into the subtle jut of bone at her hips and finally, finally between her legs because he simply cannot get enough her, but it becomes too much too quickly and simultaneously no longer enough so she reaches between them, grasping his cock. She wraps her hand around the length of him, smiling as he shudders a breath, grinning when he whimpers as she drags the tip of him through her folds. He collapses on top of her, babbling nonsense into her neck as she lines him up with her, as she rocks her hips towards his, and he hesitates, only once, neck snapping back to catch and hold her gaze, to keep it, to question.

She nods, only once, and then he’s in her, sinking slowly as if he’s holding back, trying not to go too far, too fast.

“Penelope.”

Her name is a gasp of a breath that reverberates, and she feels it so profoundly—how good they are together. How they fit, how they mould to each other, how her mind splutters and then stops and goes beautifully blank of anything but them. And when he moves, it is slow, a half stroke before he’s bottoming out again, and she is so full, and so complete, and it takes nothing, really, until they are both coming and she watches him the whole time, blissed out by the look of sheer serenity on his face as he comes with her name in his mouth.

They stay like that for a long time afterwards, tangled together and breathing hard. He is still inside her, softening, but neither moves.

"So.” His breath is against her collarbone. She can hear the smile. "That happened."

She laughs. “Finally.”

*

In the morning, she wakes to sunshine and an empty bed. The sheets beside her are cold, and she sits up instantly, disoriented and with a sinking gut, and for one horrible moment, the fear rises fast and sharp, lodging itself in her throat.

Then the door creaks open, and she smells sugar and butter and hears him fumbling one-handed with the handle and kicking the door shut with his foot. He pauses when he sees her, eyes wide, sheepish, as he stands there rumpled and soft in the morning light. In his hand is a pastry with a single candle on top. The flame flickers as he crosses the room.

"Happy birthday, Pen."

The bed shifts under his weight as he sits next to her, and she can do nothing but stare at him. At the candle. At the way he is looking at her, like she is everything.

"Make a wish," he says softly.

She leans forward. Blows the candle out.

"What did you wish for?"

She looks at him. "You."

His smile breaks wide across his face.

"Done."

And then he is kissing her again, their mouths meeting at the corners as she pulls him back to bed.